Sharps & Flats
by cymbalism
Summary: College is more than just classes: David joins the marching band at his new university never suspecting how crucial his presence will be, and Blink’s crush on his best friend changes everything. Slash: Blush and Javid
1. David's First Day

**Disclaimer**: All Newsies characters are the property of Disney; any others are of my own invention. This story contains slash. It also contains political and religious rhetoric, none of which reflects the views of Disney or FFnet or me, for that matter.

**A/N**: This story is the culmination of my band geekdom and Newsies fanhood. All marching band references are drawn from my own experience, and if any references to characters, names, mascots, or events sound eerily familiar, it's either because marching bands and their particular stereotypes are the same nationwide or you attend the same school as I did. Also, many thanks are due to my thorough and ridiculously encouraging beta clio21000.

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**Chapter 1 – David's First Day**

David surveyed the parking lot. On the blacktop before him swarmed college kids in shorts and t-shirts, some with bandanas or baseball caps on, most wearing sunglasses, and all surrounded by or holding musical instruments. It was early morning and the grass was still covered in cool dew as David knelt to lock his bicycle to a tree at what he assumed was the front of the lot – though he was still a bit confused as to why his first meeting with the marching band was scheduled to meet in a parking lot at all. A week before classes were scheduled to begin seemed too soon for pranks on the new kids – he hoped, anyway.

David unstrapped his trumpet case from the back of his bike and headed toward the crowd. As he neared the clash of students, things began to feel more chaotic instead of less, but it was a chaos David was familiar with, at least; a first day kind of chaos, filled with happy reunions and the anticipation of school-year stresses. Given that this was David's first introduction to Northern Midwest University, he was feeling the stress more than the happy.

He approached what he assumed was the equipment truck, essentially a moving van painted in navy blue with a yellow-gold stripe running through the center, and stumbled over a big black bass drum case lid. Lucky for David, the boys circling the bass and snare drums hadn't noticed. No matter what band you were in, percussionists were scarily territorial and these guys didn't look any different. A scrappy kid maybe a few years older than David with dark hair and face pinched like his cap called over a few drums for someone to throw him a new drum head while a lean – more than lean, downright skinny – boy in a baggy black t-shirt wrenched a drum key on a loose bass drum lug nut. David noticed his drum key was attached to the kid's actual key chain, which was attached to a belt loop on his jeans – the mark of a serious drummer.

"What're you gapin' at?" The boy's quick glare was ice blue and his cheek lifted his lips into a brief sneer.

David was sufficiently intimidated and it took him a few seconds to realize he'd been spoken to. "Nothing. Sorry." He hefted his trumpet case and searched the mass of bodies again for similar shapes. Where were the other trumpets? Was everyone going to be so serious and scary?

As he picked his way through the rest of the drums and cases and around the truck, a freestanding tower of yellow scaffolding positioned at the edge of the blacktop came into view. David stopped in his tracks again and put a hand to his forehead for shade as he squinted up at the structure, wondering why on earth someone would erect a scaffold where there was nothing to reach.

"Hey, you must be new," said a voice at David's elbow. David dropped his hand and was surprised to see he was flanked by two other boys. The blond on his left spoke again. "Hi, I'm Blink. I'm an alto. That's Mush, clarinet."

Marching band short-hand of nicknames and identification by instrument were kind of like identifying yourself by major in every other college setting. Somehow David had made it through four years of high school band nickname-free. "Uh, hi. I'm David." He lifted his case a little, "Trumpet."

The other boy, who had tan skin and a mass of fuzzy dark curls, smiled and welcomed him. "In case you're curious, my real name is Mike. And he's Ryan. We're sophomores. You're a freshman?"

David nodded. "Well, I transferred, so I'm a sophomore in terms of credits, but there wasn't a marching band at my last school, so I'm probably a freshman to you guys."

Blink, the blond, turned more fully toward him and David noticed for the first time that he was wearing an eye patch. He smiled, but looked antsy and kept fiddling with the saxophone reed he tucked in the corner of his mouth. "Yep, you'll be considered a freshman. Don't worry, too much, anyway."

David tried not to flinch. "Right. Thanks."

Mush smiled and David found himself patting his pocket for his sunglasses. He knew without being told that that smile was the reason Mike was "Mush" – mush was what any girl would turn into when faced with that beaming grin. David had a sister; he knew how those things worked. "Anyway, welcome to NMU. We're pretty small, but we got a mighty sound."

A third boy suddenly swooped in between Blink and Mush, slinging an arm around each of their necks. "You mean we _brass_ instruments got a mighty sound, right Mush? When's the last time anybody heard a clarinet from the stands?" The latest member of the welcome party took his arm from around Blink to give Mush a noogie, then extended his hand to David. "My name's Jack, Jack Kelly. Trumpet. You too, huh?"

"Uh – yeah."

"Jack's your section leader," Blink piped.

"And band president," Mush added proudly, though David wasn't sure exactly what inspired the sense of pride.

"Great," he said. "By the way, I'm David." Jack tossed his chin up in acknowledgement of David's introduction and a few seconds of silence passed. David was beginning to remember how much he hated new situations. He tried to make casual conversation. "So, what's the scaffold for? I mean, this is just a parking lot."

Jack's grin was loose-lipped and purely delighted. "This ain't just a parking lot, Dave. It's our practice field."

David heard himself emit a high-pitched laugh of disbelief, then heard Jack echo it. Again with the hating new situations, and people. "He's not kidding, Dave," Blink spoke up and pointed to the pavement. Under David's sneakers was the number 30 painted large and white. He scanned the rest of the asphalt and began to see the white yard lines intersect with the yellow of the angled parking spot marks. An entire football field of markings covered the blacktop. "The scaffold's for Dr. Denton to watch from, it's right on the fifty. Below it there's the podium for the drum major. We're out here rain or shine. Or, you know, snow." Blink's smile was accompanied by a shrug, both of which seemed mischievous.

"I thought you guys had a domed football field, because of the early snow. That's what I read, anyway. I thought I saw it? Somewhere?"

David ignored Jack's snicker and focused on Mush, who was actually answering his question. "We do have a dome, it's over that way," he pointed away from the scaffold. "You probably did see it. But we can't be in there all the time. It's got a track in it and the school rents it out for community stuff. And the football team has to use it, of course."

"Right, of course" David said, trying not to feel stupid. He should have known all this, but his sister Sarah didn't elaborate much on her college life or experiences, and she certainly wasn't thrilled David had transferred to NMU, especially since this was her final year, and she was drum major. In fact, she had made it very clear that the family connection between she and David was not information he should dispense voluntarily, and she stated she had no intention of making his transition into band or NMU any smoother.

Just then a surly young man in a baseball hat lurched up to Jack and hocked a loogie at his foot. "Makin' nice with the kiddies, Kelly? Fresh blood to exploit?"

Jack hadn't moved when the loogie landed next to his foot, and he kept his stance – legs stationed shoulder-width apart, arms crossed at his chest – even as another grin spread over his face. "Exploit, huh Oscar? That's a big word for you. They finally teachin' ya something here at college, or did you master that one with a dictionary over the summer?"

"Speaking of dicks, Kelly, you're the biggest dick in the entire band," Oscar glared.

Jack's grin only broadened. "My understandin' is that's not what dictionaries are all about, Oscar, but thanks for saying so."

David heard Sarah snort as she sauntered by, baton in hand and draping her whistle around her neck – drum major status symbols. "Just to be clear, Jack, he said you ARE the biggest dick in the band. Not that you HAVE the biggest dick."

There was a collective ominous "ooooh" from the veteran band members within earshot.

"Jack and Sarah were together for over a year – got together Jack's freshman year. Nobody knows why they broke up, but it wasn't a friendly parting," Blink explained in David's ear. David wasn't too surprised Sarah had neglected to mention a boyfriend, either.

"Never heard you complainin' none," Jack called after Sarah, a bit belatedly.

Sarah raised her right fist to shoulder height, middle finger extended. "Bite me, Jackass," she snapped over her shoulder.

Blink turned to David and flashed him another impish smile. "Welcome to the Cougarland Band."

David watched as Sarah stalked to the center of the milling students and blew her whistle. When most heads had turned she raised a megaphone to her mouth and called out directions. "Everybody listen up!" David was somehow gratified to find out she was capable of bossing other people around, too. "You've got five minutes to put your cases down along the edge of the field and grab your nametag. Form two lines at the back of the truck. A through L on the left, M through Z on the right. Then gather around the fifty."

David met a few more band mates while in the A through L line – "met" constituting hearing them give their names to Jack and a guy who looked torn out of an Abercrombie & Fitch ad while they doled out the tags. Once everyone had obeyed Sarah's initial set of orders, she blew her whistle a second time, even though the crowd was already seated on the pavement and mellow. Attention turned toward the front edge of the lot – field, David corrected himself – where three adults, obviously authority figures, stood. A man not quite of middle age wearing a short-sleeved Oxford shirt smiled at them from the center. His brown hair was ruffled by the slight breeze.

"Welcome to all our freshmen, and welcome back Cougarland veterans! For those of you I don't know yet, my name is Bryan Denton and I'm the director of bands here at NMU. I am excited about our numbers this year, and I'm sure this will prove one of our most successful seasons."

"What's with the bowtie?" David whispered to no one in particular as Denton droned on.

"If you can figure it out, you'll be the first," a girl seated cross-legged in front of him whispered back.

Mush casually leaned toward David's ear. "He wears them even when it's sweltering."

"And they always match his shirt," Blink added. The girl in front of them turned her head and gave Blink a sarcastic look. "Well, they do," he spat quietly.

David cracked a smile.

"We have Ms. Medda Larkson returning as our color guard instructor this year," Denton paused and a woman with almost unnaturally red hair who was wearing a purple sundress and a broad-brimmed straw hat complete with purple scarf gave an extravagant wave. "And of course, our percussion instructor, Dr. Otto Weisel." A round man sporting a somewhat rumpled t-shirt and five o'clock shadow looked nonplused to be at the center of attention. He sneered, and David assumed it was an attempt at a smile because Denton continued happily. "As selected at the end of last year, our drum majors for this season are Sarah Jacobs and Gordon "Skittery" Skitowski."

A small cadre of girls sat to David's left, and he distinctly heard the word "hot" followed by giggling come from their direction. Blink had apparently heard them, too. "There's a fan club every year, but it'll be worse now that he's drum major. Mush gets one, too. You'll see."

On the other side of David, Mush crossed his arms and scowled.

After Denton had finished his greeting he turned the captive audience back over to Sarah, who introduced the section leaders. Each one stood as his or her name was called, and David realized they were all wearing similar t-shirts – white ringer tees with navy blue piping and lettering. The boy in the pinch-billed cap who had been tuning drums was introduced as percussion section leader Tony Higgins, but several students, including Mush and Blink, whooped and hollered "Racetrack!" and "Yo, Race!" so David made a mental note not to call him Tony. Sarah's introduction of Jack was clipped, and she tacked on mention of his band president title as an afterthought. She also barely hid her disgust when someone bellowed out, "'Sup, CowBOY!"

David was interested to learn that the sousaphone – better known as tuba – section leader was Oscar Delancey, the boy who'd loogied at Jack's foot. There was no shortage of drama in among band leadership, apparently.

Jenny, a girl with long, straight hair pulled back in a ponytail with a bandana around her arm bounded to her feet as she was announced as flute section leader. A girl who was obviously a seasoned member of the band stood and gave an abbreviated wave as leader of the clarinet section. Though Sarah had introduced her as Laura, Mush informed David that everyone called her Lou. The mellophone – aka French horn – leader was a smooth-skinned young man with shiny dark hair. A boy whose name David didn't catch but who kept swiping at his nose was charged with leadership of the trombones, while the saxophones – altos and a few baritones – were to be led by a dark-haired, snub-nosed boy.

Blink, who had his elbows on his knees and hands clasped in front of him, grumbled something about eating pie into his chest.

David looked to Mush for an explanation. "Shoulda been Blink," he whispered. "He's definitely a better sax player than Pie-Eater, and when Skittery moved on to drum major, section leader was up for grabs, but Blink . . . got passed over." Blink growled a little more aggressively on David's other side.

Sarah cleared her throat and continued. "Okay, in a few minutes we'll break into sectionals for the next hour to do some marching exercises, so when we do that, look for your section leader. But first, I want to explain some rules." David wondered if that Skittery kid was annoyed that Sarah got to do all the ordering. "Our most important rule during band camp is to ALWAYS be on time. Our second rule: ALWAYS remember your nametag. If you are late, or if your section leader reports that you do not have your nametag, you will have to sing."

David allowed himself a smile. This was the perfect opportunity. "Sing what?" he called as heads of his band mates swung toward him.

Sarah glowered. "You will sing the alma mater and Cougarland fight song."

"But we don't know the alma mater and the fight song if we're freshmen," David feigned stupidity. He'd seen the lyrics printed in the Cougarland Band Handbook every band member received midsummer.

"Then don't forget your nametag and be on time," Sarah snapped. A good comeback, David admitted, but he could already see Jack and Racetrack and a few others trying not to smile at his having flustered Sarah, even if only for a brief moment. She covered by shouting more orders. "Okay, sectionals! One hour, then meet back here at the fifty!"

David spent the next hour listening to Jack and the trumpet section drill instructor – who had already altered her nametag to read "SEXY Lexie" as opposed to "Alexandra" – clap tempos and issue marching commands. The Cougarland band's marching style was similar to David's high school, but their commands were called a little differently. They started with basic eight-to-five roll stepping, making sure everyone could march without moving his/her upper body in a smooth eight steps to every five yards. Then they progressed to traversing, which Jack demonstrated excellently by keeping his shoulders squared to the sideline while he twisted his hips to point his feet left or right, depending on which direction he needed to march. David only messed up once when Lexie called a "to the rear" and David started back marching instead. That slip-up was small compared to some of the rudimentary posture problems and mixing up of lefts and rights he saw his fellow freshman trumpets making.

At the moment he was standing on his designated coordinate (40 yard-line, eight steps forward the hash mark), in what Denton had informed them was their "block formation" that they would use for roll call, warm-up exercises, and full-band marching practice from then on. To prove the sectional time was put to good use, Denton had Sarah run the full group through the marching basics. They mostly practiced combinations of backward marching and traversing. Each time his foot stepped on a white yard line marker, David called out a staccato, "HIT!" like the rest of the band to signify he'd made the perfect eight-to-five. He knew it seemed kind of stupid, and he noticed some of the freshman weren't saying it (though that may also have been because their toes were shy of the line quite often), but most of the veteran members were and he preferred to blend in as an older member of the band, if possible.

Eventually Denton hailed Sarah from his position on the scaffold, where he was accompanied by Medda and Dr. Weisel, and she called a halt. Already, everyone seemed to know halt didn't mean you could break from attention position, and David thought he could sense his sister's delight with her authority as she paused before giving the "at ease" order.

Denton dismissed them for lunch and issued a strong warning that they make it back to the field promptly at 1:30 p.m.

David made it to the cafeteria before most everyone else. He didn't have to wait for other people to pack up since he didn't know anyone yet and he didn't have to waste time looking for a spot to park since he rode his bike everywhere. Unfortunately, this meant he also had to face the near-empty dining room alone once he'd collected the most edible-looking food onto his tray. Several tables near the back of the room that had been pushed together in a long row caught his eye as the most likely place for chummy veteran band members to sit, but though he'd chatted with Blink and Mush, David wasn't sure he was quite welcome to sit with any of the others. If he sat at a small square table he'd likely end up alone or with one of the more annoying kids in the band. He took a chance and seated himself at the far end of the long table.

To his surprise, no one challenged his presence. In fact, Racetrack and Jack sat down across from him and immediately started rehashing their section-leader woes.

"I tell ya, Jack, odds are we won't have a tight line this year. Even Wease thinks it's no good."

"Wease?" David interjected.

Racetrack snorted. "That old bastard Weasel. The drumline instructor? He was that lump standing by Denton this morning."

"Oh," David was a little unsettled by Racetrack's characterization of an authority figure, but didn't push the issue.

Jack spoke up, steering back to the initial topic. "Look at it this way, Race: how often are your instincts about odds right?"

Racetrack glowered over his hamburger. "Hey, that tip last time . . . If you're still sore . . ."

Jack held up his hands in innocence. "All I'm saying is that given your track record at guessing, you might have a better line than you think."

Racetrack pursed his lips, but looked unconvinced. "Did you see that blond kid I got to deal with? The one with glasses? Guy trips over his own feet crab walking."

"It's the first day, Race. Cut him some slack. Our section's shapin' up okay though, right Dave?"

"Um – sure. I mean, we haven't done much of anything yet."

Jack laughed. "Don't worry, Dave, we'll see what you're made of tomorrow."

"Why tomorrow?"

"Auditions, Dave. Gotta see where the talent lies. We'll assign who plays first, second, and third parts."

Racetrack groaned. "The only fun part about auditions is watchin' Spot scare the livin' daylights outta the freshmen."

Spot, David guessed, was the skinny kid with blue eyes he'd encountered earlier and who was currently seated halfway down the table. Also down that way was Sarah, who was in eager conversation with Jenny the flute section leader. David turned back to his lunch before she caught him looking in her direction.

After lunch, the band stood ready in block formation at precisely 1:30, and Denton announced proudly, though David sensed some lingering disappointment from returning band members, that everyone had remembered his or her nametag, thus no one had to sing the fight song. They were, however, going to spend the next four hours learning to march it.

And they did. Drill instructors handed out charts, more experienced band members counted off spots in perfect eight-to-five for jittery freshmen, the color guard was predictably awful at maintaining the perfectly diagonal line that formed the center of the letter 'N' design Denton had plotted, and eventually David's upper back ached from holding his arms up in attention position for so long. But by 5:30, the whole band could form the 'N,' march across the field and back, then collapse it into a tidy rectangle from which Denton informed them they would then play the "Star Spangled Banner" at the beginning of every game.

When Sarah called the final "at ease," David realized he was exhausted and definitely hungry again. Just then Blink and Mush bounded over.

"We wanted to catch you and make sure you knew about tonight's activity," Blink said in a winded rush.

"Activity?"

"Every night there's a different band-sponsored event. A getting-to-know-you type deal," Mush explained. "Because we ended early today," David flinched, remembering that for the rest of the week rehearsals wouldn't end until 8:00 p.m., "we're having a pizza party. It starts at 6:00 in the East Hall courtyard. You'll be there? We gotta go set up for it."

"But you'll be there?" Blink echoed.

Though he was slightly annoyed that he'd have to wait another half hour to eat, and he was starting to crave some alone time, David said he'd be there. Mush's face was too earnest to say no to him. As the pair scurried off toward Blink's beat-up station wagon, David noticed several girls from various sections – mostly flutes, though – watch Mush pass with a keen eye and some stifled giggles. Blink had called that one.

David had never seen so many pizzas in one place at one time. Nor had he seen so many pizzas disappear so fast. Most of the band kids who lived on campus – including all freshmen and sophomores by school mandate – lived in East Hall because of its proximity to the Fine Arts building where the practice rooms were. Subsequently, it seemed the entire band had shown up for the free meal of non-cafeteria food.

Just after he'd gotten a few slices of pepperoni, SEXY Lexie had waved him over to where she'd plopped onto the grass with a girl with spiky blond pigtails David thought he'd seen in the mellophone section. He looked around for Blink and Mush, hoping to avoid her, but Lexie was determined. "Pull up some turf and have a seat, Dave. We don't bite." The mellophone giggled.

A few more people joined them, but Lexie proceeded to lord over the conversation. Though she was one of his section's own, David couldn't help noting her typical trumpet arrogance. "Of course, I made the city band when I was a freshman in high school, you know." She was lecturing what appeared to be some first-year flutes. "That's why I have so much ensemble experience. But don't worry, you'll get the chance to play with some professional ensembles some day, too."

David spotted Mush in a group of people across the courtyard and jumped to his feet without realizing it. "Uh, I gotta, um, go. I'll see you later." He scooped up his empty paper plate and Lexie, who was seated with her legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles and leaning back on her elbows gave him a lazy smile over her sunglasses. "See you, Dave."

He hitched himself across the courtyard as quickly as possible and skidded to a halt next to Mush who greeted him with a kilowatt smile, but peeked around him to see which direction he'd come from. "You running from someone?"

David tried not to wince. "Not really. I mean, no. Lexie's just—"

"Ah," said Mush knowingly. "Yeah. Be careful there."

"Careful? I mean, I wasn't . . . I don't . . ."

"Right," Mush nodded as though in agreement. "I know."

David was beyond confused. "What? We ate pizza with—"

"I know. It's cool. Just, you know, watch out. That's all." Mush smiled and turned back to the conversation between a white-haired man with a thick neck David didn't know and a few other band kids, including the kid who had spat at Jack's foot earlier.

"That's good, then," the white-haired man said. "It's settled. Thank you, Oscar, for volunteering." He turned to David and his lips stretched across his face, slightly parted. "Welcome, young man. What's your name?" He extended a hand, and David noticed the other clutched a brown leather-bound book.

"David Jacobs," he said, entering into a clammy handshake with the stranger.

"David Jacobs," he repeated. "A nice Biblical name. I'm Pastor Snyder, David. I am the spiritual director for the Christian Community Club on campus. Many of your band mates are members and they kindly invited me tonight."

"Christian Community Club?" David repeated. "Isn't that kind of a redundancy?"

Pastor Snyder's slit of a smile turned even more grim.

"We usually just call it CCC," Mush broke in.

"Oh, right," David toed at a clump of grass.

"Maybe you would like to join us at our first meeting of the year, David?" Snyder offered. "Oscar here has just agreed to lead our first worship. We meet Wednesdays once the school term begins."

Oscar had a fine fuzz of a developing mustache on his upper lip and beady black eyes. He didn't echo Pastor Snyder's invitation, but puffed up his chest a little at the announcement of his position.

"Yeah, maybe. I'll think about it," he lied. After witnessing Oscar's behavior earlier, David had no desire to be involved in an organization with him. Or be forced to listen to him. He wondered briefly why Mush was hanging out with Oscar and where Blink was, but as he scanned the other faces, they all seemed sufficiently friendly.

"Uh, Mush, I'll see you around. I think I'm going to go up to my room. Or maybe practice for auditions tomorrow."

"Sure," Mush said. "Thanks for coming, Dave. Have a good night."

David didn't wait around to look for Blink, though he wondered why Blink would be so eager to invite him and then not show up. He waved at Jack and Racetrack who appeared to be taunting Sarah, but didn't stop, and she didn't notice him slip by.

Up in his room, David shut the heavy metallic door behind him and leaned against it for its coolness. The courtyard was on the opposite side of the hall, and the only sounds drifting in through his open window were the occasional car swishing past and a dog barking somewhere in the distance. He was glad to be alone. The room was still a jumble of crates and boxes. He'd managed to get sheets on what he'd claimed as his bed the day before, but nothing else was in order yet. He wasn't sure how his roommate would want to arrange the furniture – two beds that were bunkable, a tall dresser, and two desks – and at the moment he didn't care to contemplate.

He kicked off his sneakers and flopped down on the sheets, throwing an arm over his face. Well, he thought, that hadn't gone too badly.


	2. Blink's Developing Dilemma

**Disclaimer**: Newsies are Disney's; OCs are of my own invention. Story contains slash. It also contains political and religious rhetoric, none of which reflects the views of Disney or FFnet or me, for that matter.

**A/N**: My intention is to alternate between David and Blink's points of view each chapter until events are such that they may need to overlap one another within chapters. Keeps the suspense up, too! More thanks and adoration for my beta clio21000 for her quick work on this chapter.

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**Chapter 2 – Blink's Developing Dilemma**

The day wasn't starting out very well. Race had warned him against the pink shirt, but Blink ignored his roommate, saying it was still early enough in the season that no one would care to make jokes. He was wrong.

Jenny, the flute section leader, was the first to notice. "Look, Blink in pink!" She piped as Blink had sauntered into his block formation spot, saxophone strapped around his neck while he fiddled with the ligature and reed.

"It's the only shirt I had clean," he'd retorted, with the satisfaction of knowing it was the truth.

Jenny's smile wavered for a second. "It looks good on you, Ryan," she said, her voice more subdued, and Blink felt a pang of regret for being short with her; she was just being nice.

Other people, however, were not so nice in their teasing. Blink made it through the morning's full-band stretches and marching warm-ups with no more comments, but as Denton's megaphone-amplified voice echoed from scaffold, he swore he heard a male voice behind him mutter "fairy." He didn't catch who'd said it before Sarah called them to attention, though.

A bit later, as they were fetching their instruments from the sidelines, one of the second-part trumpet players had given Blink the walking equivalent of a hockey shoulder check. David chucked him lightly on the other shoulder just after, a friendly gesture of encouragement. Even though Blink hadn't explicitly told David he was gay, he knew then that David had heard, or figured it out.

And now, here were the Delancey brothers, striding toward the line for water behind the equipment truck like they owned the sun in the sky. It was only mid-morning break and Blink already felt a fight brewing. He set his lips in a line and hooked his thumbs through the belt loops on his shorts.

Oscar cuffed a hand around the back of a short freshman's neck and shoved him not-so-gently toward the end of the line, thereby taking cuts and positioning himself directly in front of Blink.

"Feeling hot today, flamer?" Oscar jeered, and Blink watched as Morris – Oscar's equally oafish though slightly taller brother – produced a grin.

Blink narrowed his good eye and clenched his jaw. Last year he'd learned the hard way that letting Oscar's dribble run its course was the best way to deal with him.

Just as Oscar was about to open his trap once more, Racetrack swooped between he and Blink, casually waving his cap in front of his face. "Dear me, what is that unpleasant aroma? I fear the sewer may have backed up durin' the night."

Jack was close behind Race and followed his lead. "Nah, Race. It's just that Oscar and Morris here forgot to shower this morning, again."

Blink couldn't have stopped the smile that broke over his face even if he tried.

"You two still defending your little faggot friend here?" Oscar's voice dripped with derision and Blink itched to knock his smug expression right off his face. His fingers tightened into a fist at his side.

Mush appeared at Blink's shoulder. "That's not very Christian of you, is it, Oscar? Callin' names and picking a fight. Is that the kind of example you should set as worship leader at our next CCC meeting?"

Jack and Race looked about as surprised as Blink by Mush's sudden – and, by the look on the Delancey's faces, very effective – defensive verbal tactic. Mush was Blink's best friend and had shown his support the previous year when the whole band had discovered Blink's homosexuality, but he usually just let Jack and Race do the dirty work when it came to the Delanceys.

Oscar's mouth opened and snapped closed a few times. Apparently utter disbelief was enough to shut him up, Blink thought. Race waved his arms in a shooing motion toward the sidelines, saying, "Yeah, yeah. Go swing from a tree, you big ape."

Everyone standing nearby, most of whom had overheard the exchange with interest, chuckled or smiled shyly. Oscar tapped Morris on the stomach with the back of his hand, and they both took slow retreating steps.

Maybe, Blink mused, today wasn't going to be quite as awful as he'd thought.

"Thanks guys," he said, stepping up to the bright orange cooler and pushing the little white spigot button to fill his cup with water.

All three guys shrugged and muttered acceptance of his thanks while they got water, too. Though the parking lot pavement was heating up in the still-rising sun, the four of them promptly sat own anyway after wandering a short way from the truck. The sheer need to NOT stand for a few precious moments was worth the extra warmth.

"This is the hottest day yet." Mush swiped at his forehead. "And it's not even noon."

It was true that among the usual rolled t-shirt sleeves and tank tops of the band members, there were prominent sweat marks under arms and down backs. Several more people had donned bandanas to keep sweat from their eyes, too.

"At least we're inside after lunch," Racetrack said. "I don't know if I can take much more of these kids."

"We're only half way through. And this New York show Denton came up with has pretty easy songs, one of which is a plop and play," Mush reasoned. Blink loved the plop and play formation; he got to be at the very point on one arm of the star shape for the whole rendition of "New York, New York" from the musical _On the Town_.

"Yeah, you tell that to the dumbasses in my section. I got bass drummers who can't march in straight lines and cymbals who can't march backward. That blond gawky kid hardly says anything except 'sorry' he messes up so much. And then this morning Weasel tells me we gotta rearrange the snare drum order so we're by height order because it looks better. I told him maybe it would _look_ better, but it doesn't _work_ better – I'd be on the end! So now I just look like the shrimp in the middle because he made those giants Harris and Benny take the ends. We practically had to relearn that whole drill because'a that old bastard." Race crushed his emptied cup in his fist.

Jack clapped him on the back. "S'okay, Race. It's only half way through band camp."

Race made noncommittal noises that signaled he was agreeing to stop complaining rather than agreeing with Jack's optimistic outlook.

"At least you get to be section leader," Blink said without realizing he'd voiced the thought until after it was out. The other boys looked at him curiously – Mush with a trace of sympathy. Blink shrugged. "Pie Eater's got an easy time of it. We only got three freshmen this year and they're doing fine."

Part of Blink wished Pie Eater was having a more difficult time leading the section. He comforted himself with the knowledge that one the freshman girls had told her clarinet friend in Mush's presence that she thought Blink was a better player than Pie Eater. Of course, that also made him want to stick out his tongue and say "nah-nah nah-nah boo-boo" whenever Pie Eater opened his mouth. So far, he'd refrained.

"Maybe next year," Mush said.

Because it was Mush, Blink suppressed his scoff.

Sarah's whistle sounded the call back to their positions.

Jack clambered to his feet in time to dash behind Sarah and snatch her conductor's baton from the base of her bun where she stuck it for safe keeping while not in use. Blink and Mush trotted back to their spots; the clarinets and saxes weren't far from each other on the charts for "On Broadway."

"We should head over to the island at lunch today," Mush said as he stuffed his drill charts into the side pocket of his cargo shorts. "It's so hot today that water will feel good no matter how freezing. Let's just you and me go."

Blink thought his insides were grinning as much as his outsides. Despite the fact that they were suitemates, he and Mush hadn't spent much time just hanging out on their own yet this year. And – Blink admitted inwardly – just because Mush was his best friend didn't mean Blink couldn't appreciate how good he looked in swim trunks.

"Sounds good. We'll swing by the room and grab towels then head over. What do you want to do for food?"

Mush shrugged as he took his spot again and Blink turned and took steps backward to reach his own coordinate. "We'll grab something."

Two and a half hours later, they sat cross-legged on the upper crest of the island just off-shore the mainland in their swim shorts, chowing down foot-long subs. After crossing the footbridge over the river that separated the island from the mainland, they had scaled the uphill path to reach the windward side, which was formed by a rock cliff dropping into the depths of great lakes' fresh water. Today the water was so clear the sheets of black and red rock at the bottom looked deceptively close, but Blink or Mush barely noticed as they stripped off shirts and shoes and socks on their race to plunge in.

Once their systems recovered from the blast of cold that felt like a body-wide ice-cream headache, the boys scrambled back up the cliff face using the natural juts and corners of rock as hand and foot holds. Then they broke into their subs, eating fast enough that they would have time for a few more jumps and disregarding any memories of motherly advice about waiting a half hour between eating a swimming. Blink's food was disappearing faster than Mush's, as usual.

Considering the day was so warm, Blink had been surprised there weren't other people who'd thought to come jump in the lake, but Mush reminded him that it would probably be packed in the evening, when the water would feel warmer compared to the slightly cooled air.

"And I think cliff diving is supposed to be tonight's activity. They switched it with tomorrow because it might rain," Mush explained. "I overheard Lou and Skittery talking about it."

Blink nodded, but didn't know what to say next. The mention of activity nights was something of a sore spot with him since Pastor Snyder had shown up at the pizza party. Blink had had enough of that man and his Bible-thumping last year.

Like he always did, Mush seemed to know exactly what was on his mind. "I didn't invite him, you know. I didn't even know anyone had."

"He's a creep," Blink muttered, still upset enough to avoid looking at Mush, but grateful to know that truth; he hadn't wanted to ask, but it had been gnawing at him for days.

"What was I supposed to do, tell him to leave? He sponsors our group."

"Well, maybe he shouldn't."

Mush sighed. "I just wanted to make sure you knew I wasn't the one who asked him. I still think you could've come down anyway. I don't think he would have marched up to you and started preaching."

"That's exactly what he would've done. I'm sure that's what Oscar had in mind earlier today when you shut him down. . . . Thanks again, by the way."

Mush lifted and dropped a smooth, brown shoulder and swiped his palms together to clear off crumbs, having finished three-quarters of his sub. He stretched out against the rock, the sun beaming down on his chest, small droplets of water glinting in his curly hair.

Blink almost choked on the larger-than-average bite of his sub he'd packed into his mouth, but suddenly felt in a better mood.

"Did I tell you what happened to Dave at the party?" In thirty seconds of relaxation, Mush's voice had already taken on that sun-drenched sleepy quality.

Blink managed an "Mm-mm," which meant, "No, go on" through the same over-large mouthful.

"Lexie trapped him."

This time when Blink choked he almost spat half-chewed sandwich onto Mush's leg, but Mush didn't seem to notice. His eyes were closed against the bright sun. "Yeah, I saw him sitting with her. I think the first chance he had to get away he beat it over to me, though."

Blink regained the power of speech. "Smart move. Did you warn him?"

Mush nodded. "Uh-huh. But didn't tell him about Race, though."

"No, he can figure that out on his own. I'm pretty sure he knows I'm gay. You tell him?"

Mush shook his head and sat upright. "No, but maybe somebody else did. Or maybe he guessed. You did wear pink today." He playfully shoved Blink's head.

"That's it, you're done for!" Blink shouted, jumping to his feet. Mush followed suit and they play-fought their way to the edge of the cliff. Blink lost sight of Mush as he dashed out of his good range of vision and next thing he knew he was flailing through the air. He managed to tuck into a cannonball before he hit the water's surface, and just as he swam back up for air, Mush splashed in next to him. Blink let him break the surface and grab a breath before dunking him back under in retaliation.

"That's what you get for playing on my disability."

Mush gave his usual high pitched chuckle, but sobered quickly when he finished wiping water from his eyelashes. "Speaking of that, Blink, your patch is missing."

Blink's hand flew to his left eye. "Fuck! I shoulda taken it off before!" Left hand still covering the empty socket, he swirled in the chilly water, searching the small glistening waves for any sign of the leather patch.

"We'll find it. It just happened a minute ago and it's not that wavy." Mush reassured him.

"I am NOT going back to practice without it. I am NOT." Blink felt something like panic rise in his stomach. As a kid he'd been taunted for years about wearing the patch, then as a teenager he was taunted more for being gay. Sometimes the subjects had even been cleverly combined – _What happened, Blinky? Some guy's dick poke your eye out?_ still echoed through some of his worse nightmares.

When he'd come to college, however, not many people mentioned the eye patch, and those that did were innocently curious. After witnessing the power of narrow-minded people in large groups last year, he wanted to keep it that way.

He cycled his legs in the water, trying to get enough height to see further around him. Mush swam in the opposite direction and started searching against the rocks.

"I am NOT going back if I don't find it," Blink said again. "I am NOT." Panic spread to his chest. Why hadn't he just thought to take it off? It wasn't like it would have been the first time Mush had seen him without it. He ducked under water to have a look around with his good eye, but saw nothing floating nearby and returned to the surface.

"Blink, here!"

He whirled in time to see Mush take two strong strokes toward the rock face and lift his outstretched hand triumphantly. A soggy brown string and wilted piece of leather dangled from his fingers.

Grinning madly, Blink swam toward his best friend and tackle-hugged him in the water. "God, what would I do without you, Mushy?" When he let go, Mush was grinning back at him, genuine excitement in his soft brown eyes. . . .

Blink felt something more than just the retreating panic flicker through his chest. "We probably should be getting back, huh?" he asked, trying to sound casual.

But he kept treading water.

And so did Mush.

If it hadn't been for Mush, this really would have been a terrible day, Blink knew, but he wasn't sure how to say that.

"Yeah, we don't want to have to sing," Mush agreed, belatedly. He grabbed hold of a rock ledge and yanked himself up, water streaming off his shorts, forcing them to cling . . .

Blink's stomach did a cartwheel. That's Mush, he reminded himself. That's your best friend. You're Christian Community Club-going, girl-hounded, totally straight best friend. Blink looped the still-tied string over his arm and began the climb out of the water, simultaneously smothering the thought, but damn he's hot.

Back at band, it was the typical scene: the black posture-forcing band chairs were pre-arranged into the concert formation arc (probably by Race and Jack) and peppered with sunburned students, Denton stood at the podium looking over the score, flip folders of music made dull clangs against music stands as owners tossed them into place, and a few people were tuning or quietly practicing. Blink saw David in the first few seats of the trumpet section silently staring at his music and fingering his horn; Denton and Jack were right to make him a first trumpet, Blink was sure. He scooted into his seat next to Skittery, who was his stand partner during concert season and practiced the stand cheers and other miscellaneous songs with the band when not on drum major duty.

Racetrack's voice carried over his shoulder. "You won't believe it, man," Blink turned to see Racetrack had plopped into the chair behind him. "You won't believe it because I hardly believe it."

"What's the deal?" Blink asked as he swung an elbow over the back of his chair.

"You know that lousy blond kid we put on cymbals I keep yammerin' about? The one who can't play a roll on a snare or hit a bass drum right? That kid's genius. Wease told us before lunch that we got some big percussion solo coming up this year, an' we're gonna haul everything on to the field and really show off playing – of all things, I swear the man's nuts – the Harry Potter theme song." Race rolled his eyes. "Anyway, I come in here early to move stuff around and hear somebody whalin' away on the marimba. I think it's Spot, you know, messin' around. But no shit, Blink, it was that Dutchy kid!"

The trombone who was supposed to be seated where Race currently was poked him in the shoulder just as Sarah called, "Band, ten-hut!" and everyone snapped to attention – except Race who ducked out of the trombone's seat back to his waiting snare.

"I hope everyone had a satisfying lunch," Denton greeted them. "Let's take a look at 'On Broadway.'"

Blink had fun sitting next to Skittery. The friendly competition between them as the two best sax players in the band kept both of them on their toes. Unlike Blink, Skittery had the added talent of a strong and gorgeous singing voice, which stoked Blink's desire to be just a little better than Skittery on sax.

Denton stopped the band during The Star Spangled Banner to make sure the bass drums could managed the volume of their roll and the cymbals could crash exactly in time. Race caught Blink's eye and nodded sideways to Dutchy with a look of disbelief. Blink gave him a quick smile of acknowledgement, then bent his head and whispered to Skittery, "How's life as drum major, anyway? Does it bug you to be taking orders from Sarah?"

Skittery shrugged some. "Nah. She digs the job, let her have the glory."

"You aren't short on glory," Blink whispered back. "Half the girls in this band want you, Gordon." It was a big joke among the older band members that the formerly geeky Gordon Skitowski had become a band heart-throb over the years.

"Only half? Ah, well I suppose the other half is after Mush."

They laughed together, and Blink glanced across the rows to where his best friend sat in the sea of clarinet-playing females. Mush's brown eyes happened to be looking right back at him.


	3. Initiation

**Disclaimer**: Newsies are Disney's. Story contains slash.

**A/N**: This chapter is my personal favorite thus far. It was a lot of fun to freak out David and have so many of the characters interact -- drunk!Spot was a particular delight. Thanks to those who have been reading and reviewing thus far. And, of course, continued thanks and praise for my beta clio21000.

* * *

**Chapter 3 – Initiation**

The last evening rehearsal of band camp always meant one thing: Drill Down. Everyone got to see how well the freshman had been indoctrinated into the Cougarland marching style in the last week, and the veterans got to show off and compete against each other. David had hung in longer than half the band, but then Sarah called a left flank while they were back marching. He turned the wrong way and smacked into Morris. It was lucky they didn't use instruments during Drill Downs or David would have a concussion from a trombone slide.

So now he sat on the edge of the practice field (he had finally resolved to calling it a field) with the others who had been eliminated, watching the last few and best marchers. Once Jack was eliminated, he predicted a tie between Racetrack and Bumlets, the mellophone section leader. Mush was rooting for Lou, while Blink was proud that a freshman sax player was still in the game.

Mostly David was watching the senior percussionist everyone called Spot. There was something about Spot's legs that just mystified him. They were so skinny – you could tell even though he wore jeans every day – and yet so obviously strong. For each command Sarah called out, Spot executed it in perfect percussion marching style.

Percussionists, David knew, didn't take the sharp turns commanded on "flanks" because the weight and bulk of the drum would topple them, or wound the people close by. Instead, percussionists bent their knees and dropped into a "crab walk" – snaking leg behind leg across the field while keeping their upper body stiff and maintaining the perfect ratio of eight-steps-to-five-yards. This way, their drums always faced the audience no matter what direction their bodies moved.

Spot even held out his arms with his hands pointed down to represent the edges of his tenor drums (quads, David heard Racetrack call them), emphasizing his resemblance to a crab. David would have felt embarrassed or geeky if he was required to crab walk, but Spot made it look like the most natural thing in the world. And no one, David felt sure, would ever even consider making fun of Spot. Or Race, for that matter, even though his legs were almost too short to make a big enough step for eight-to-five marching.

Sarah rattled off an intimidating string of commands full of double and triple flanks, then instead of giving the execute command she called a halt. All of the marchers automatically responded, "Step and close!" but several of them, including Race, took an extra step toward doing the first flank move.

"That was a bum call, Sarah Jacobs!" Racetrack shouted over his shoulder as he trotted to the sideline. "Dirty and low!" He took a seat next to Jack. "She's on a power trip tonight."

"As usual," David and Jack muttered at the same time. Their eyes locked together in surprise, but neither of them spoke.

It was down to Spot and Bumlets. "My money's on Spot," Race said. "Boy's like a robot. No way anybody beats a perc marching."

"Unless you're a dance minor like Bumlets, apparently," Mush said as Spot's foot stuttered mid crab-step and he stumbled.

Cheers went up from across the band for Bumlets, and Spot shoved his fists in his jeans pockets. He sauntered over to Race, brushing by David without a glance. "Fucking rock," was all he said.

Denton came forward out of the mob, clapping for Bumlets with his clip board tucked under his arm. His bowtie was dark blue today, no doubt in honor of the school colors.

"That's great. Congrats, Alex. Really nice job." He turned to address the restless students. "Okay guys, I am bound by university dictate to make it clear band camp is now over. Whatever activities you undertake this evening, specifically the Y-trap" he smiled slightly, as thought happy to be in on some joke, "are in no way affiliated with the band. I just want to say that I hope you all look out for each other and I don't want to hear any incriminating stories."

David wasn't sure what the Y-trap was, but he'd heard the word circulate through the band several times already that day. He sprawled back on the ground, the day's heat radiating up into his muscles. All he knew was that his calves and shoulders ached from seven days of constant use, he never wanted to smell sunblock again, and tomorrow he didn't have to wake up at 7:00 in the morning. He was D-O-N-E, done. For the weekend anyway, which right now seemed enough. He wanted to unpack the rest of his stuff and shower and print off his class schedule before Monday. Plus it was now Saturday and he was still roommate-less; he assumed whoever it was would be arriving tomorrow.

"C'mon, Davey. Time's a-wastin'."

He scowled up Jack, whose shadow draped over him. "What are you talking about?"

"Can't tell ya Dave, but you got to get up. Section leader's orders."

David laughed. "Orders?" With no intention of following Jack, he sat up and looked around for Blink and Mush. He was surprised to see they were each with their own sections. In fact, no one had left yet except Denton. Each section was grouped across the field in their usual drill sectionals spots, while veteran members blindfolded the newcomers with various bandanas and ripped pieces of t-shirt. "What the hell, Jack?"

Jack's wide, dopey grin was the last thing he saw before something soft but taut covered his eyes and was tied at the back of his head. "Don't worry, sweet cheeks." Lexie's voice was at his ear. "We'll uncover those baby blues when the time is right." She gathered his hand behind his back and tied those, too.

David wished he could shoot a glare at Jack. Instead he had to let Lexie help him to his feet.

She led him across the lot then put a hand on his head and guided him into a vehicle. "But wait," David grabbed for her arm that had just let him go. "What about my bike? And my trumpet?"

"Your stuff's fine," a male voice responded from the front seat.

Someone was shoved in next to David. "Hey! I don't need this blindfold, you know. You took my glasses," the kid started to shout as the door was shut on them. "I can't see anything anyway with out them!"

David tried to scoot over to give the kid more room as the car started and eased forward.

"This is stupid" said the boy.

"I agree," David huffed. "Hey, who's driving? Where are you taking us?"

"Will you quit worrying?" said the voice at the front again. "We're a marching band, for Christ's sake. Not the fucking mafia."

David sulked against the backseat. He just wanted to go back to his room and shower.

"So – I'm Dutchy," said the kid next to him.

"Yeah? I'm David. You'll excuse me for not shaking your hand."

He thought he heard Dutchy shrug.

The drive was predictably disorienting. David hadn't explored the town much since arriving – he knew his way to the practice field from campus and to a Chinese place he'd gone to with some of the other kids earlier in the week. They drove for fifteen or twenty minutes, so David figured they were outside of town. When the car stopped and David's door opened, he knew he was right. He heard birds chirping their end-of-day song and crickets begin to thrum but no voices. David was hauled out by someone much rougher than Lexie had been as she'd helped him in, and he felt gravel under his feet. He didn't bother to ask where they were, though. The quiet seemed to ensure no one would answer.

His wrists were untied, and a hand planted itself on his left shoulder. David heard more cars pull up, quite a bit of scuffling in the gravel, and a few indistinct whispers. The fact that everyone seemed to be arriving at the same place gave him some measure of comfort.

The hand on his shoulder urged him to walk forward and David wondered absently who it belonged to, but as the air around him cooled and the light seemed to dim, David swallowed hard. He knew it was stupid to be scared – whoever said it was right: this was just a dumb marching band prank – but David didn't really like the woods. And wasn't it going to be dark soon?

The ground beneath his feet began a slight incline. David imagined all ninety-some band members, a quarter of them in blindfolds, winding up the path through the trees. It would probably be very amusing if he weren't one of the ones blindfolded, he admitted, and immediately wondered who was watching him. Was Sarah nearby?

A voice up ahead of him rang out. "Okay, recruits! Repeat after me!" It was unmistakably Racetrack. He began a singsong call-and-response that reminded David of boot camp movies. "Doctor Weasel's turning green!"

Laughter echoed around David and voices chorused, "Doctor Weasel's turning green!" in the same singsong way. David kept quiet, for which he received a jab in the ribs.

"Ow!" he accused, rubbing his side, but no one apologized.

"'Cause we just peed in his canteen!" Race's tone was bright.

"'Cause we just peed in his canteen!" This time David sang, too, and to his surprise he felt some tension dissipate; his shoulder muscles relaxed away from his neck and a sensation like relief broke within him. He wasn't sure, but he thought whoever was next to him – the hand was still on his shoulder – smiled. Race kept up the rhymes as they hiked, sometimes ordering them to "sound off." David found himself walking in step to the chanting – the military's purpose for it, and hence the development of marching bands, David thought. And then shook his head at how geeky that thought had been.

His guide whispered to him only three times. The first time he said, "Root" just as David's toe caught on something and he reeled forward into an uncontrollable fall. Quicker than gravity, his guide's broad hand pressed against David's sternum and righted him. David whispered his thanks, at the same time registering the fact that his guide was male and that his chest now tingled. Later on, whoever it was also said, "Duck," and David did so in time to successfully avoid hitting his head on whatever he was ducking from. Then his guide said, "Stairs," at which point David reached out for a railing and found a wooden banister.

He was panting and sweating by the time his guide pulled back on his shoulder and tapped his chest with his other hand, indicating they had reached the place to stop. A breeze ruffled David's hair as he stooped over and rested his hands on his knees. By the sound of it, everyone was gathering again. He was pushed forward a few steps and spun to face a certain direction.

"Okay, recruits," Racetrack piped again. "Kneel!"

Kneel? David definitely wanted to sit after that hike, but kneel? He heard shifting and some murmurs of discomfort around him, though, so he followed suit, patting the ground around him to make sure he didn't crush anyone. His knees met hard wood planks instead of dirt or gravel – a mixed blessing.

"You've made it through band camp," Sarah's voice spread over them, "which tested your stamina and dedication. Now we ask that you pledge your allegiance to the Cougarland band."

Jack spoke next. "Some of you from around here know there's a strong Native American tradition up here in the Midwest. I myself haven't grown up around it, but the story I'm gonna tell you now was passed down generations of one of the local tribes. It starts with a guy on a journey . . ."

At first David wished Jack would talk faster because his knees were killing him. But the sound of Jack's voice – the contradiction of his slight accent and the Native American folklore – captured David's attention and he listened intently to the story of the young hunter who was humbled by his quest to kill the largest mountain lion in his land.

"So, at that moment, as sun met the horizon," Jack narrated, "He knelt down, like you guys are now, and he raised his hands to the sky – go ahead, raise your hands."

Only after David raised his hands at Jack's prompting did he think to make sure that other people had, too. The rustle around him confirmed they had.

"Then the young hunter said a prayer, a pledge," Jack continued. "It's the pledge we ask you to say now. Repeat after me: O wah—"

"O wah," David and the kneeling freshmen around him chanted, arms still raised to the heavens.

"Tanas—" Jack said and waited for them to echo. "Iam," he finished, and paused. "Good. Now everybody say it together, three times."

"O wah tanas iam," the twenty-some kneelers said on cue. It sounded okay the first time, still had the open vowels of other Native American words David had heard. But the second time, David suspected something and he heard people trying to stifle laughter and nervous giggles around him. There was going back now, though. He had to say it just once more. "Oh what an ass I am."

Full laughter burst out. Even David chuckled, then remembered self-consciously that he could probably drop his hands now.

"Okay, okay everybody, settle. Congratulations, freshmen, you are now officially members of the Cougarland marching band. You can stand and remove your blindfolds," Sarah instructed.

David got to his feet, expecting to see smirks and amused glances. He didn't expect the view.

Stretching away before him were miles of tree tops, punctuated with sharp crags of gray rock. To his left the massive blue of the great lake spread before him with no opposite shore in sight. And there, at the horizon, was the setting sun, its light dyeing the clouds above orange and pink above an almost green sky.

David realized his jaw was hanging open when a hand clapped him on the back. "Nice job, Davey. You played along good." Jack appeared at his shoulder. "Sorry about that root, though."

Dazed by the magnificent view and the fact that the hand at his shoulder had been Jack's, David's response was delayed. "Oh, yeah. That's okay. I mean, no harm done. It was worth it. I mean, for this," he pointed out over the vista, leaning in to the guard railing that surrounded the lookout platform.

"Yeah," Jack leaned his elbows on the railing next to him. "It's something. They don't make 'em like this where I come from."

"Where do you come from?" David startled himself by asking.

Jack's face was impassive as he surveyed the sunset. "East," was all the answer he gave.

A few beats of silence between them passed, even though other band members were chattering and laughing around them.

"So now we hike down?" David guessed. "It'll be dark soon. Shouldn't we be getting back to the cars?"

"We're not going back yet." Jack's grin returned. "We're going to the Y-trap." Jack laughed at David's creased-brow confusion and question he'd opened his mouth to ask. "C'mon, you're a bright kid. Think about it."

All afternoon David had thought Y-trap was an acronym, but now he realized the word was just spelled backwards. "We're going to have a party up here?" He scanned the crowd of college kids.

"Nope, we're gonna have a party down _there_." Jack pointed straight down the cliff to a series of flat rock slabs below them. A lazy section of river spread between the rocks and the beginning of the tree line. "The bog. It's tradition."

"That's kind of dangerous, isn't it?" David countered.

Jack laughed and turned away from the railing, heading into the crowd, "My guess is that's the point, Dave."

Two hours later the scene was much different. Instead of high on a rock crag with a brilliant sunset and lively chatter, David sat around one of the few small fires in the dark. Some of the band members were still lively, hunched around the fires in conversation and sometimes singing, but their speech couldn't be classified as chatter anymore. Apparently an advance team had gone down to the bog with plenty of beer and collected firewood in preparation for the Y-trap. Other veteran members who had known what the night would bring had carted more alcohol in their cars and hiked down to fetch it before returning to the bog.

David drank one beer with Blink and Mush. Some clarinet and flute girls, emboldened by alcohol, sat with them. Dana, a dark-haired flute in cut-off jean shorts, led the assault on Mush's sensibilities, leaning her head on his shoulder and keeping him engaged in conversation. David noticed the girls laughed and talked with Blink, but didn't seem to _flirt_ with him, further confirming David's suspicion about Blink's sexuality.

Lou sat next to David, sipping at her beer and occasionally teasing Mush for all the attention, which only made him (and sometimes Dana) turn red. Between her caustic comments about the mating ritual across the fire, she engaged David conversation about his journalism major – she was into communication studies, so they had some common ground – and life at NMU in general.

Feeling comfortable he'd found a new friend, David decided to ask a question that had occurred to him during initiation. "What's with the cougar thing at this school? Cougars don't live up here."

A smile tugged at the corners of Lou's mouth. "Are you sure about that?"

David blinked at her. "Cougars were wiped out of the Midwest. I read about it somewhere . . ."

The others caught on to their conversation, and David visibly saw mischief creep across Blink's face. "Oh, they're here. The DNR just won't admit because they don't want to scare anyone."

Dana whispered to her friend, whose eyes widened. Mush rolled his eyes. "No, Dave's right," he agreed. "They're only out west now. You know how the University of Michigan's mascot is the Wolverines, but wolverines are all-but extinct? And how they build neighborhoods and then name the streets after the stuff that's not there anymore – Orchard Way, and whatever else. It's like that. We only used to be a 'cougarland.'"

Lou and Blink were both shaking their heads. "Well, if that's true then why have I heard one scream?" Lou asked.

"Scream?" Dana's jaw dropped and she cuddled closer to Mush.

"Cougars do not scream," David interjected. "I read that that's a myth—"

"—It's really good you read so much, Dave," Lou chided, "but I swear to you, I heard one. In these woods. Scared the shit out of me. It sounded like a woman in pain."

"Or a baby crying, right?" Blink added, and Lou nodded.

David jammed the stick he'd been twirling in his hands into the fire, sending up sparks. "That's ridiculous."

Mush shot a look at Blink. "It _is_ ridiculous. Don't listen to them." He inched away from Dana.

Conversation wandered elsewhere, and eventually David decided to brave the possibility of a cougar attack to get a better look at the stars – he'd never seen so many. He crossed the broad plain of rock to a space not inhabited by drunken, groping couples and lay flat on his back to look up at the swath of the Milky Way against the black sky. He didn't feel tired yet, even though he still wanted a shower, and he had stopped worrying about his trumpet and bike after Mush had assured him they were safe in the band room.

It felt good to be here, David concluded. Good to be in band, and at this school. He was (as usual) excited for classes to start Monday, and looking forward to the interview he'd set up over e-mail with the editor of the school's newspaper staff. Even though his sister was kind of a brat for completely ignoring him, he was getting along fine without her influence – and after years of her criticism and advice, only having to deal with her as drum major was kind of a relief.

A breeze off the lake sent a chill over David's arms and legs. He decided it was time to return to one of the fires and got to his feet. Walking back into the flickering light, he looked around for an empty seat by a fire. Sarah sat huddled with Jenny, her best friend, across a fire pit from Skittery and others. Mush and Blink were still entertaining the girls, whom had gotten progressively giggly. David moved toward the fire Racetrack and Jack sat at until he recognized Lexie's short, spikey hair from behind. Taking Mush's advice, he steered clear toward the next circle of flames.

Spot sat at one edge of fire, elbows slung on his bony knees and taking a deep sip of the bottle in his hand. He wasn't alone, exactly, but it appeared the underclassmen around him had lost a drinking game or four – most of them were passed out.

"Kids can't hold their liquor," Spot said as David tentatively took a seat next to him. He glanced sideways at him. "You're that twitchy kid I drove over here with Dutchy. Here—" he fished at his other side without looking and brought up a bottle, set down the one he'd been sipping on, then reached for his keychain. He popped the bottle open with his drum key and handed it to David. "You need to drink more."

"Um, thanks," David said, accepting the drink. He knew Denton's caution hadn't gone unheeded and that several band members were staying voluntarily sober to make sure people got down off the mountain and home okay. A select few had brought sleeping bags and sweatshirts and planned to sleep out for the night, but many had already opted to go home, some claiming they had to get up for church in the morning. David wasn't much of a drinker, and he did want to make it back to his room at some point, but he had the feeling Spot wasn't going to let him sit there if he didn't drink with him.

David gestured to the sprawled bodies, one of which he recognized as Dutchy. "Are they okay?"

"They'll wake up tomorrow, if that's what you mean," Spot answered. "You never been to a college party, kid?"

"Yeah, I have. I transferred from another school."

"Why the switch?" Spot nursed his bottle.

"More opportunities here. Further from home." David shrugged, pretending nonchalance.

Spot snorted. "More opportunities? Where'd you come from, kid?"

"Chicago." He quickly added, "But at bigger schools it's harder to get involved and get experience. And they didn't have a band at my other school."

David studied Spot's reaction in sidelong looks – he only nodded and swallowed a gulp of alcohol. "Yeah, well, in this band, everyone is dry or drunk, saved or damned."

Spot's sudden turn at philosophy surprised David. "Saved or damned? You mean the party?"

A derisive laugh escaped Spot and he turned his head to look at David fully for the first time. "Don't tell me you haven't noticed. Jacky-boy tells me you got brains."

David sipped his own beer and considered. "The CCC? That kind of saved?"

Hand still wrapped around the bottle, he pointed a finger in David's direction. "Brains," he said. "Well, I got brains, too. Brains enough to avoid that shit, anyway." He glared at the fire. In the dim light, David could tell Spot's arms were slender and sinewy, probably from hours of drumming.

"So, which are you?" David asked cautiously, already guessing the answer.

Spot laughed loudly. "Me? I'm drunk and damned. Drunk and damned. Hallelujah." He toasted the air with his bottle.

Trying to inject enough sarcasm in his voice to prevent pissing off Spot, David asked, "So you're not in with Snyder and the gang?"

"I'm not _in_ with anybody." Spot snapped, then tilted his head back to finished off his beer. "Least of all him. And if you know what's good for you, you'll keep away, too."

David had the distinct sense he shouldn't push his luck by asking why, exactly.

It was just after two in the morning when David began the descent back down to the parking lot with Mush, Blink, Racetrack, and Jack. Spot had fallen into silence, staring at the fire, and David was pretty sure that meant he was going to stay, so he took advantage of seeing Mush disentangle himself from a sleeping Dana and asked for a ride back to the dorms. David offered to drive someone's car, but Racetrack dangled a set of keys and said he had been charged with responsibility of his suitemates.

Blink was pretty plastered and leaned heavily on Mush with an arm around shoulder. Because Dana had made sure he kept a beer in his hand all night, Mush didn't look much steadier, but together they managed not to fall over. Jack's stride, David noticed, was looser than usual as the flash light's beam silhouetted him now and again as they picked their way down the path.

Remembering what Lou had said about cougars – even though she was probably kidding, David told himself – he jogged forward a few steps to walk next to Jack, who smiled at him momentarily but said nothing as he trotted along, hands slung in his pockets.

The trip back to campus featured Blink singing "On Broadway" from the middle of the backseat while Mush fell asleep with his cheek smooshed against the window pane and mouth open, which made Racetrack grumble something about just having cleaned his car. Jack sat behind David quietly and patiently; somehow David found it eerie Jack got less talkative when he had a buzz.

After Racetrack and David had propelled Blink and Mush up the stairs to their room and Racetrack was unlocking the door to their suite, David waved them goodnight. "See you Monday," he said and saw Racetrack jerk his chin in an inverted nod.

To his surprise, Jack followed him down the hallway. "I thought you roomed with Race," David said."

Jack shook his head. "Nope. Blink rooms with Race. Crutchy – orchestra kid – is Mush's roommate." It was the most he'd spoken in almost an hour.

They reached his door and Jack smiled as he flicked the construction paper cut-out of a cat's paw that read "Welcome David!" on it. David unlocked the door and flipped the light switch. Without asking, Jack entered behind him.

"My roommate hasn't moved in yet," David said sweeping his arm around the half empty 12 x 12 cinderblock room. "I guess he'll show up tomorrow. Er – later today." He shot a look at his alarm clock – already close to 3:00 a.m.

Jack nodded. He surveyed the books on David's desk, noted at the Indiana Jones poster David had sticky-tacked to the wall, and half smiled at the fact that David's bed was neatly made. All without saying a word.

David hadn't taken off his shoes or even put down his keys. "Jack, why don't you stay here tonight?"

Jack swung his head toward David and cocked it slightly, like he was trying to place where he'd seen him before. Then he snapped out of it – just like that. "Ah , no, thanks. I got my own place."

Until Jack spoke, David hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath. "Right. Yeah. I mean . . . I just meant if you didn't want to walk home. . . ."

"That's real nice of you, Dave," Jack said seriously, hand back in his pockets. "But I think I should go. The walk'll do me good."

"Okay. Sure." David assented, suddenly aware his palms felt sweaty. "So, I'll see you Monday. At practice."

Jack pursed his lips and nodded. "Monday," he said, turning to go. David followed cautiously, so he could shut the door behind him. "Night, Dave," Jack said without looking back as he stepped into the hallway.

"Bye, Jack." He closed the door on his section leader – his sister's ex-boyfriend, he remembered – not waiting to watch him walk away.

David pressed his forehead against the door and hit the light switch – darkness reclaimed the room. He didn't move until his heartbeat slowed to its normal pace.


	4. Third Quarter Break

**Disclaimer**: Newsies belong to Disney. Story contains slash.**  
**

**A/N**: Last summer portions of this chapter were entered in B's Blink Week contest and posted here on FFnet under the same title. I would like to thank the people who read, reviewed, and offered assistance over the past year. This is the chapter that inspired it all! And, of course, danke schön to my beta clio21000.

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**Chapter 4 – Third Quarter Break**

The Cougarland Marching Band stood in street marching formation on the sidewalk outside the Fine Arts building, preparing to march into the dome for their first game. When Sarah yelled, "Heels," Blink and the rest of the band shouted, "Together!" Next she yelled, "Toes," and the immediate response was, "Apart!"

Blink loved this ritual. LOVED it. Sometimes he pretended someone was filming him and couldn't help smiling for the imaginary cameraman. Each time Sarah bellowed a body part, Blink shouted the appropriate position, checking his stature as he did so to make sure he was at perfect attention. Stomach – in. Chest – out. Shoulders – back. Chin –

"Pride!" Blink lifted his chin upward and held it there. Every head in the band was tilted at the same dignified angle. A pride of cougars, Denton liked to call them.

"Chin."

"Pride!"

"Chin."

"Pride!"

Silence.

God was that cool.

Behind him, Racetrack hit four rimshots. The band began to mark time, the percussion section played a full roll off, and they were on the move, the percussionists starting into the first cadence.

The march to the dome was about four blocks, winding through campus. Blink was always a little sad there wasn't more an audience for this march, but football wasn't exactly the popular sport at Northern Midwest University – the team's record was one of the worst in the conference. Despite the lack of adoring fans, Blink marched proudly in his blue and white uniform with the gold helmet and feathered crest, his saxophone in carry position except for when Pie Eater gave the signal and the altos swung their instruments in a jazzy shoulder move to the cadence beat.

If marching band could be career, Blink would join up for life. As it was, he settled for secondary music education hoping to land a job at a high school with a marching band some day. He loved performing on his own or with smaller combos, but he didn't expect to make it as a musician. Mush always said he could, but sometimes he thought Mush had too much faith in him. Whenever he said so, though, Mush just shrugged and said, "That's what friends are for."

Friends were for a lot of things, it seemed, according to Mush. Friends washed your crusty EasyMac bowl that had been sitting on the sink counter in the suite's bathroom for a week. Friends made you do the reading for your classes even though it was only the first few weeks of the semester and you didn't really want to. Friends ate breakfast and dinner with you every day, whether or not other people from the suite or dorm wanted to come. Friends asked your opinion on everything from movies to career choices, but also told you when you're being stupid or impatient or too impulsive. Friends chucked you on the shoulder and caught your eye across rooms to share silent jokes and wore a smile every time they saw you. Friends let you sit right next to them on the futon, thighs and shoulders prickling with heat, and didn't care that you were gay.

Mush was definitely a good friend. Half the time Blink didn't think he deserved how nice Mush was because he didn't think he was as good a friend by comparison. And yet Mush was always there, without question.

The band slowed and began to mark time to Race's lone drum tap as the color guard began to cross into the avenue that separated the dome from the main campus. The girls, in their swishy blue pants and sequined vests and headbands, formed two lines with their red and gold flags held high. That it was the color guard's job to stop traffic was something of a joke. Once last year Race had made the smart remark during rehearsal that it was the color guard's duty because they were the most expendable section. Unfortunately, Medda overheard, and she'd dragged him off the field by his ear and lectured him, gesturing wildly, for nearly ten minutes. Blink smiled at the memory, keeping time with his heels.

When the several guard members were in place, the band stepped off, moving forward as the percussion section launched into their final cadence, and Blink's thoughts wandered back to his best friend.

Lately Blink was noticing a new development in his friendship with Mush. Okay, so maybe it wasn't really a development. It was more like a new perspective, or a subtle shift in . . . yeah, okay, fine.

The truth? He kept having these dreams. About Mush and making out and rubbing a palm . . . Well, every guy wakes up with morning wood, right? That's normal. What's not normal is dreaming about wrapping an arm around your best friend's naked waist, pressing against his smooth chest, and feeling warm breath as you lean in to . . . Okay, see? A morning hard-on brought to you by your hot English TA? All right, fine. But when it's brought to you by someone you have to share the bathroom with once you roll out of bed? Kind of a problem.

So far he didn't think Mush had noticed anything. Blink was always fidgety and prone to spacing out mid-conversation: two traits which conveniently covered for his current level of distraction every time Mush arched his back to stretch, or jogged across the practice field, or reached for the salt.

He'd heard other guys, like Race, talk about feeling this way before – trapped into being "just friends" with a girl who happens to be completely gorgeous. But unless the girl had a boyfriend (and sometimes even if she did), chances were she was attracted to Race, too. Or at least might be. Blink's situation was much less hopeful.

Hopeful? No way. He shouldn't even be thinking in terms of hope.

Right then, in full dress uniform at the edge of the saxophone section, he resolved to squash, stuff, deny, block, ignore, and downright decapitate all thoughts about Mush that weren't strictly friendly. He could do that. He could.

The band rounded a corner and he caught a glimpse of Mush in a row of clarinets up ahead, his black curls poking out of his helmet and shoulders squared strongly . . . no. NO. Blink winced. His best friend's shoulders weren't important. And neither was his hair. That was Mush up there. That's it. No description necessary.

By the time the band trooped in through the dome's front doors and the drums played another roll off into the fight song, Blink was almost desperately glad to have something else to occupy his mind. Bright brass and woodwind tones bounced through the dome while the percussion rumbled and clacked until the echoes were as loud as the initial hits.

After a few silent minutes spent getting into position, the band launched into its pre-game performance, marching the "N," playing the national anthem, forming a tunnel for the football team to run through on to the field. They settled into their section in the stands and first two quarters of the game were interspersed with stand cheers, both instrumental and shouted. Occasionally Denton had to signal for them to stop when the game play started up again so the team wouldn't incur a noise penalty.

During the second quarter, Blink was turned to talk to the altos seated behind him and he scanned the bleachers stretching up and away as he listened to their conversation. Up just a few rows and to his left, Blink saw the trumpet section. Jack was seated on the far end, intently watching the action on the field. David sat next to him, trumpet dangling from his fingers between his spread knees, and next to David was Lexie. A dark look shadowed David's face as Lexie leaned closer to him and tucked one of his curls behind his ear, apparently jabbering nonstop. David batted her hand away and scooted toward Jack, bumping into him with his knee. Blink smothered a smile, then glanced to the right at where the percussionists had balanced their drums in the stands. He saw Race clearly glowering in David and Lexie's direction. Maybe, Blink thought, Mush should have been a little more specific in his warning to Dave about Lexie.

The New York half time show seemed to be a hit. Blink made his mark as the point of the star and did the marching kick-line at the end well, though he noticed a spacing issue between himself and the sax player to his right, which made him wonder about what he couldn't see on his left.

By the time show was finished and the third quarter was underway, Blink was sweaty and starving. The team was losing, again, of course, and Denton had given the okay for everyone to take off their uniform jackets so they could go grab snacks without ruining the pristine white coats. Blink and Mush followed their equally sweaty fellow band members to the concession stands for PowerAde and hotdogs – they both got two and piled them high with relish and ketchup.

As they were seated at a small table around the corner from the concession stand, Blink found himself forced to agree with the flutes and clarinets: Mush was the only boy that could make their marching band uniform look hot. But, dammit, he wasn't going to think like that anymore.

"Did you hear Denton say we nailed that kick line? He was almost jumping up and down he was so pumped." Mush asked between gulps of his PowerAde.

Blink watched him swallow, then remembered to answer. Stop thinking your best friend is hot, he cautioned himself. "Yeah. I think I might have been too far forward, though. It was hard to tell."

"We'll check for it when we watch the tape next week. I bet you were fine. Hey, that Tetris thing you guys did was great. Lou almost died laughing."

Was Mush ever not supportive? Blink shifted in his chair, but smiled. He was pretty proud of transposing the Tetris theme to use as a stand cheer for the saxes – Denton didn't care what they played as long as it was upbeat. "Yeah? That's good. I'm thinking of doing Mario next."

It was nearing the end of third quarter and the other band members had trickled back to the stands. Blink had practically inhaled his hotdogs and was waiting for Mush to finish. As he watched Mush slowly stuff the butt-end of his last hotdog in his mouth, he completely abandoned his hours-old resolution. In fact, he forgot he'd made one altogether.

The mustard-yellow (which Denton insisted on calling "gold") of Mush's band t-shirt mysteriously did not clash with his mocha skin, and the poly-cotton blend had shrunk just enough for it stretch tight across his pecs and shoulders. If you only knew Mush as a clarinet player, you'd never guess his body was sweetly sculpted. The times Blink had seen Mush shirtless flashed through his mind: mornings in the suite's bathroom, cliff jumping during band camp.

Blink realized Mush had realized he was staring, and he looked a little confused about it. Blink knew that when Mush finished chewing he would open his mouth and ask what was up, and Blink didn't want to explain. He just wanted to –

Mush swallowed and cocked his head, primed to ask a question, but he never got his lips open. Before he could, Blink leaned over and pressed his mouth against Mush's.

Blink didn't fully comprehend the impact of what he was doing until after he had done it, and he froze in his moment of revelation. As a result, the kiss turned out to be much longer than just the peck Blink had intended. Wait, had he intended this? Then he remembered he was still kissing his very straight, very Christian best friend and pulled back.

Mush's brown eyes were wide. Blink flinched. Why did Mush have to look so innocent? He felt like he'd just molested a child.

Still looking stunned, Mush crumpled up the paper boats from his hotdogs and collected his PowerAde bottle. "We have to get back. Almost fourth quarter," he mumbled and stood.

Blink watched his best friend walk toward the entrance to the field and stands – his uniform looked good on him even from behind, dammit – and then sunk his head to the table top with a thud. What had he just done?

For the rest of the night, Mush didn't say a word, and Blink tried to keep his distance. Every time he looked at Mush it felt like his insides were hollowing out. But when he didn't look at Mush, he felt the same way he had the day he lost his eye patch in the lake: panicked. That day Mush had come to the rescue. This time . . . Blink couldn't think about it.

He took his time changing out of his uniform, making sure Mush would have made it back to his room before Blink even left the Fine Arts building. By the time he did get back to his room, Race was settled in for the night and watching a poker tournament on TV from the futon.

"Hey, you look like shit," Race tried to joke, but Blink just shrugged, avoiding eye contact with his roommate. He didn't bother to shower or change out of his gym shorts and band t-shirt. He climbed up into his bunk and collapsed into his pillow, hoping for dreamless sleep for a whole new set of reasons.

On Monday night after band practice, when he knew Crutchy had a night class, Blink knocked on the bathroom door entrance to Mush and Crutchy's room. He could hear the TV on, but he got no answer, so he tried turning the handle to let himself in. The door was locked. Blink's stomach slipped to his toes and he gaped at the door's thick coat of dark blue paint. That door had never been locked. Ever.

The days slogged forward. Even the weather seemed sluggish and moody – hot for September but cloudy, humid without rain. Concentrating in class was even harder than usual, and although he still went to his assigned practice room hours, Blink didn't practice. He took out his sax, stuck the reed in his mouth, and stared at the music, but never put the instrument to his lips – even when he did bother to get the ligature on. Instead he sat in the soundless room and replayed the moment in his mind. If only he hadn't been so impulsive. If only he'd told Mush about his developing crush, maybe he wouldn't have acted on it.

There were a lot of _if only_s.

Race and Crutchy knew something was up – the suite had been unusually somber and silent since Saturday night – but they weren't about to ask for details. The unspoken agreement was if another guy had a problem, he'd come to you if he wanted your opinion. And Blink didn't need anyone else to tell him how badly he'd screwed up; Mush's continued silence said that loud and clear.

After five days, Mush still hadn't spoken to him. Blink was about out of his mind.

Thursday night practices were always long (6:00 to 9:00 plus sectionals for percussion and altos) but tonight was particularly hard to bear. All week Mush had been avoiding eye contact with Blink during concert formation, and every time Denton gave the band a break Mush was sure to surround himself with an impenetrable force field of adoring females. Like now.

Blink sat alone on the squishy turf in the domed stadium, his alto in his lap, while Mush was surrounded by the flute section, smiling. Nearest Blink was the percussion section. Race had kept them behind during break to lecture about the importance of actually keeping a tempo and watching the drum majors. Having listened to Race spout most of the lecture in their dorm room in the form of complaining throughout the week, Blink tuned him out until a deep clang of vibrating metal made him turn back to the percs.

Race clapped his palms to his face, and dragged them down slowly. He rolled his eyes in frustration as Dutchy scrambled to pick up his dropped cymbal. Spot stood next to and a little behind Race, detached and silent as usual. His arms were crossed intimidatingly, but Blink thought he might be smirking.

"It's not cracked!" Dutchy proclaimed, smiling until he saw Race and Spot.

"That's it," Race said, taking off his cap only to settle it once more over his black hair. "Dutch, I'm movin' you down the line. You're with Harris. Anna, you're my cymbal now."

Crestfallen, Dutchy examined the offending leather strap and mumbled, "I thought I tied it tight enough."

"What you think and what you do are two different things. Wease'll have my neck and yours if you keep droppin' stuff. And maybe I'll be able to see where I'm going now that I don't have your blond mug in the way." Shaking his head, Race walked past Blink toward the sideline where he met up with Jack.

Blink managed a half-hearted smile at his roommate's predicament, but his attention immediately traveled back to Mush.

Five days.

All Blink wanted to do was apologize and forget about it. Well, he wasn't sure he could forget it, entirely, but he wanted to try, because Mush was his best friend and Blink needed him. Race was a good guy, but his constant sarcasm sometimes irked Blink. Crutchy was . . . well, Crutchy's voice annoyed him sometimes, and his limited mobility made it impossible to dash out to the courtyard for a game of Ultimate Frisbee or skip Weasel's Music Theory class to go hiking. And when Blink was outted to the band last year, the only person who hadn't changed his behavior toward him even the slightest was Mush.

Okay then. He would apologize. Right now. Somehow he would make Mush listen. In the back of Blink's mind he knew going into this without a hard-and-fast plan wasn't smart – that's how he had ended up kissing Mush, after all – but he had to make it right.

He unclipped his sax from his neck strap, set it carefully on the turf, and trotted over to the circle of flutes. Dana had her head on Mush's shoulder and arm around his waist; Blink tried not to visibly cringe. The girls greeted him nicely enough, but Mush didn't bother to turn and look up or say hello.

"Hey Blinky!" Jenny piped. "Sit with us!"

Blink stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Uh – actually Jen, I just want to talk to Mush for minute. Um, alone."

Dana lifted her head from Mush's shoulder and took her hand off his waist, as though giving permission. Mush glared at her quickly then finally looked up to Blink. He still didn't speak.

Blink scratched his eyebrow above his eye patch. "Just give me a minute. One minute."

Mush sighed and stood easily without having to push himself up or – STOP THINKING YOUR BEST FRIEND IS HOT, Blink mentally scolded himself. Hands in pockets, both boys strode to the walkway under the stands and out the other side to the far edge of the stadium. They turned right, away from where Jack and Race were taunting Morris, and stopped when they were out of earshot.

Blink avoided looking Mush straight in the eye . . . those big sad brown puppy dog eyes – STOP THINKING YOUR BEST FRIEND IS HOT.

He heaved a deep sigh. "Mush, Mikey, I'm sorry. I was stupid and I didn't think about . . . consequences. Just like you always say I don't. I'm sorry I freaked you out, I'm sorry if I made you mad, I'm sorry if—"

"Blink."

Now that he'd started, he had to keep going. "Look, maybe I'm not, you know, smart, but I'm not dumb either, and I know what I did was dumb because you're my friend and I just want us to stay frie—"

"Blink."

His stomach was full of lead. "Yeah, okay, I get it. You never want to talk to me again. Okay, I'll—"

Mush clamped his hands on Blink's shoulders. "RYAN."

Blink blinked his good eye and met Mush's big soft brown puppy dog . . . "What?"

Now Mush sighed. He dropped his hands back to his sides, and Blink felt a flicker of disappointment. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe I'm not mad?"

"Um. No." Mush took an exasperated step backward, but Blink closed the distance between them. He knew he should have thought about this more. "Mush, you're not talking to me. You're my best friend and . . . If you're not mad why aren't you talking to me?"

"Because I had to figure things out first." Mush stabbed the toe of his sneaker against the concrete floor.

"Figure things out? Oh, well, I guess get it. If you know that I'm attracted to you then that makes being friends with the band's token gay kid, you know, awkward."

Mush pushed out a big sigh again. "No, Blink. I had to figure out . . . how I felt about . . . it."

Blink was confused. Wasn't that what he just said? "About what? Me? Yeah, I kno—"

Mush looked almost as confused at Blink felt. "No, not you." He glanced at the floor. "I know how I feel about you. I mean the kiss."

"Oh," Blink shrugged. Then the full force of Mush's words slammed into him. "OH."

"I told myself I couldn't be around you anymore because . . . I thought if I wasn't around you I would, I don't know, stop feeling—" Mush paused and looked up, straight at Blink. His brown eyes were watery. "I am scared, Blink, but not because of you. 'Cause of me. Ryan? What does it mean if, if I didn't mind that you kissed me? What does it mean if I . . . liked it?"

Blink had a pretty good idea of what it would mean if it were anyone else (himself, for instance, when he and Tim Glover kissed in tenth grade) but for Mush? He may have been tolerant of Blink's "choice," but Blink knew Mush's parents were all for that amendment banning gay marriage. Mush went to church every Sunday and was in the praise band. And he liked the girls' attention and (as far as Blink knew) liked girls, period. But Blink had never seen Mush on the verge of tears, and it was all he could do not to hug him.

"Mikey," Blink's voice was almost a whisper. "Do you really, really mean what you just said?"

Mush nodded, his bottom lip tucked into his teeth.

"Is that the first time you ever thought about kissing a boy? I mean, had you wondered what it would be like before . . . before I, um, kissed you?"

Mush nodded again.

Blink supposed that last question still left some leeway for doubt. Didn't everybody at least _think _about kissing a member of the same sex at least once? He tried to think of a question that would give Mush – and himself – some clear evidence.

"Mush, have you ever had a long-term interest in a boy? Like a crush, where you want to be with that person and make them laugh and get to kid around and touch them? A crush, but on a boy?" Mush nodded and this time murmured something. Blink tilted an ear closer to his friend. "What was that?"

"I said, 'on you.'"

"Oh," Blink started to shrug when for the second time Mush's words rocked him on his heels. "OH. God, Mush, I—"

Sweet, uncorrupted Michael "Mush" Meyers, had a boy-crush on him? And then Blink had kissed him.

Blink shook away the refrain of _stupid stupid stupid_ his brain was chanting. He had to be strong for Mush, help him figure this out. "But what about anyone else? I mean, is it just me you think you might, um, like? Or think you're attracted to?" Mush mumbled and Blink winced. "I'm really sorry, Mikey, I didn't hear you."

"That freshman Dutchy is hot." Blink watched his friend think for a few seconds. "And even though he can be a complete ass, so is Spot."

Blink heard Sarah calling out orders from the field. He looked at his watch. This had definitely taken longer than a minute, and even though he wasn't crying, Mush looked so conflicted and wretched that Blink knew it wasn't something they were going to fully resolve in the next minute and a half. "Mikey, we gotta go back. Are you gonna be okay? Can you finish rehearsal or do you need to go back to the dorms? I can tell Lou and Denton you're sick."

Mush ground his palms into his eye sockets, then shook his head and jostled his body around a bit, as if shifting pieces back into their proper place. "Ryan, I'm gay. And I'm going to have to learn to live with that. Might as well start now."

Blink swung an arm over Mush's shoulders in what he hoped was a friendly, comforting way as they headed back toward the field. This wasn't going to be easy – for anyone.


	5. Meetings and Missing Answers

**Disclaimer**: Newsies are Disney's; OCs are of my own invention. Story contains slash. It also contains political and religious rhetoric, none of which reflects the views of Disney or FFnet or me, for that matter.

**A/N:** We had a little lag time between this chapter and the last, and I wish I could say it would never happen again, but real life is beginning to impose on my chapter-a-week abilities. Don't worry, though, I'm too far in to quit now! I would like to extend many, many thanks to my faithful readers and reviewers – everyone is very kind and I appreciate the excitement for the story as well as marching band memories. And, as always, praise and glory to my Sprace-seeking beta, clio21000, who was a bit rankled by this chapter but forgives me because she's that awesome.

* * *

**Chapter 5 -- Meetings and Missing Answers**

David felt pretty good about himself as he trotted from the Student Union to the Fine Arts building on his way to band Wednesday evening. He'd just turned in his second news brief and first full feature for the _Cougar News_ well before the 8:00 p.m. deadline, and the editor was impressed. Tomorrow he'd see his name in print on the front page, yesterday Denton had announced an hour of today's rehearsal would be in-doors, and the real icing on the cake was that his profs had somehow all managed not to assign any homework for the night. After band, he'd have an entire evening free. That hadn't happened yet and the semester was already a month old.

He jogged the short staircase up to the mezzanine where the lockers and practice rooms were located. Since there was still a good half hour before rehearsal started, he thought he might sneak in a little practice on the new show's music.

After assembling his trumpet and grabbing his flip-folder, he took the next short flight of steps up to the second floor and peeked into the narrow window of the band room door. The lights were on, but the room appeared empty, though the chairs and stands were already arranged in concert formation -- no doubt Racetrack had been there just minutes ago to complete the job.

David was four steps into the room when a female voice called, "Hey there, sweet cheeks," from behind him.

He spun, surprise widening his eyes. "Lexie. Oh, hey. I didn't know you were in here." If I had, I wouldn't have come in, he added mentally.

"That's okay." Lexie pushed off from where she'd been leaning against the cinder block wall -- the same wall the door was on, which was why David hadn't seen her. "I was just waiting . . ." one corner of her mouth turned up, "for you."

"Me?" David swallowed, wishing he'd made it to his seat or at least put more distance (and obstacles) between him and Lexie. Of course, she sat next to him during rehearsal, so there wasn't much help for it, but at the moment she was uncomfortably close him.

Lexie had dyed the ends of her spikey dark hair a bold red. She bent her head close to David's shoulder. "See what I did last night? How's it look?"

David's nose crinkled; her head still smelled like the dye. "Um, fine. I mean, good."

Lexie looked up, deliberately making eye contact. "Thanks." She smiled, and warning signals went off in David's brain and stomach simultaneously. He stepped back and stumbled into one of the music stands. With a decidedly cat-like reflex, Lexie snatched his wrist, steadying him enough to pull him forward into a full-mouth kiss.

She clutched the base of the hand that held his flip folder, and David still held his trumpet in his other hand. His eyes were open in disbelief, and he could see hers were closed in concentration. He tried to wedge his trumpet between their bodies, but Lexie stood firm.

"What the hell is this?"

The relief that crashed over David at the sound of Racetrack's voice and Lexie's detachment from his lips was quickly replaced with what felt a lot like fear when he saw the burning anger in the short Italian boy's eyes. Suddenly Mush's warning on the first day of band camp made a whole lot of sense.

"This isn't what it looks like," David was quick to explain. Lexie stood close to him still, arms crossed and a glint in her eye. He glowered at her.

"It looks like you were makin' out with Lexie." Racetrack's New York accent seemed thicker than usual. David desperately hoped Race had no mafia connections.

"NO!" David checked himself and started over, without the yelling this time. "No, Race, I swear. She was making out with me." Somehow that didn't sound as good as he'd wanted it to.

"Aww, come on, Dave," Lexie almost purred, "you kissed me back." But when she smiled, it wasn't at David.

"No!" David couldn't quite keep the disgust from his voice, and Racetrack's black look hadn't dissipated yet. In fact, it might have darkened. "Agh. She's not -- I'm -- I mean, we're not--"

"I didn't ask what it's _not_," Racetrack spat the word like a dagger, but it dawned on David that while Race was responding to David's words, his anger was clearly directed at Lexie.

He sighed with genuine relief. "Okay, well, I think this is something the two of you need to -- uh -- settle," David took some cautious steps around Racetrack and toward the door, "alone." And with that, he slid out to the lobby.

About a dozen band members stared at him and David wondered how much they had seen through the window. Eyebrows raised and more than one jaw dropped when shouts filtered out of the soundproofed band room behind him. David tried not to turn red.

Blink bounded over to David, his smile punctuated with a saxophone reed. "Bet I can guess what that's about."

"Great, you want to tell me?" Still shell-shocked from Lexie's attack, he swiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"It's like a game. Race was into her last year but she strung him along, dated other guys, so he gave up. Then when he started seeing other people she made a big deal about being single, but flirted with every guy in the band, including Morris."

"Ew."

Blink nodded. "I know. Anyway, they go back and forth -- torment each other, have a big fight, get it on for a few days, figure out they hate each other and start over."

"And you've lived with him through all of this?"

"Yup."

"And I was just another victim?"

"Yup."

"So am I off the hook now? I mean, they're fighting, so now it's a few days of -- you know -- and then she'll move on?"

Blink gave him a sympathetic look, "I hope so for your sake."

David made a face. "Thanks."

Rehearsal started as kind of a drag. Their next show was a collection of contemporary and traditional songs with Latin rhythms -- including Gloria Estefan's "Rhythm of the Night" which had produced a few snickers when the music was handed out the previous week -- and was proving a little more difficult than it seemed Denton had anticipated. David noticed Jack fingering through some measures while Denton gave special attention to other sections, and Lexie was overplaying which forced her sound off-key or rushed the tempo (though David suspected that had more to do with her personal life than a struggle with the music).

Through most of practice, David could hear whispered chatter from behind the trumpet section. Denton had told the percussion to take it easy while he worked with the brass and woodwinds, so the percs sat in clusters on the floor among their drums and cymbals. David could peripherally see Spot spinning one of his quad mallets in circles between his fingers, while some of the male snares used their knees or the floor as practice pads, tapping out tricky rhythms from the music with their sticks.

Race was the only perc standing. His arms were crossed and he was clearly glaring at the several female percussionists seated to his right who were the main source of the whispering.

Between playing a few measures at Denton's behest or listening to the other sections work their parts up to tempo, David caught the words "his chest" and "like when he" and several stifled laughs. A discussion of Skittery, more than likely. Band rumor had it that Skittery had already used his drum major status to charm his way into bed with a few flutes and at least one color guard member. From what David gleaned from the whispers, some of the drumline girls wouldn't object to being next.

Denton's baton was poised to give the down beat, David's trumpet was poised against his lips, and the entire band had taken a collective breath and was poised to blow when Racetrack erupted.

"There will be NO talkin' for the REST of rehearsal. NO talkin', percussion, you understand?" He stabbed a finger in the direction of the now red-faced girls. "If I hear one more word about some guy's arms or lips or eyes, I swear to God . . . There's NO MORE TALKIN' and that's FINAL."

David chanced a look at Lexie who appeared quite self-satisfied. Silence wavered for a few seconds until a loud clang and whish of metal sounded from the back of the room. Heads swung from Racetrack to Dutchy, who had accidentally kicked his cymbals.

"Oh crap. Sorry, Race. Wait, no talking. Right. Sorry." Even Dutchy's blond hair managed to look guilty.

One arm folded across his chest, Race planted his forehead into the heel of his other hand in dismay.

Somehow, everyone managed not to laugh. Denton cleared his throat and held up his baton. "Well, let's start again at measure thirty-five. . . ."

On the mezzanine after rehearsal, David overheard Blink and Mush talking in the next row of lockers while he put his trumpet away.

"You don't have to go," he heard Blink say, and it was evident he was trying to keep his voice low and tone even.

"Yeah, I do. I'm in the praise band, remember? We play tonight," Mush countered.

Most everyone else had slammed their lockers and headed to the dorms or cafeteria, but David hung back. He guessed they were talking about the CCC and he was intrigued, as much by Blink's apparent aversion to the organization as the memory of Spot's drunken characterization of it.

"Look, Mush, those people--"

"Hey, not all of _those_ people are bad people. Lou goes every week, and Dana, and that freshman mellophone Itey -- he's a nice kid. Half the band goes, Blink. It's just a fellowship meeting."

"But Snyder, Mush, c'mon. You know he's full of shit and he--"

"Snyder's not why I go, you know that." David dawdled over the latches on his case, and made sure to keep quiet because Mush's voice sunk even quieter. "This isn't something I'm going to give up on, Blink, just because. . ."

David wasn't sure if Mush intentionally left the sentence there or was refusing to give a reason. Either way, Blink backed down.

"I know, Mush. I get it. I just wish Snyder wasn't such a creep. But, hey, good luck with the band tonight." There was a pause. "I'll see you later."

David's face heated as Blink sauntered past his row on the way to the stairs. He tried to hide behind the skinny locker door, but it didn't work.

Blink's step slowed only minimally as he called, "Hey, Dave," before jogging down the steps.

David waved, then slid his case into his locker and fastened the padlock on the door.

"Dave?" Mush sounded startled as he poked his head around the locker row. He took a few more steps forward and David noticed a guitar case in his hand.

"Hey, Mush." David tapped his thigh as a few awkward seconds passed. "So, where're you going with the guitar?" He flinched at how lame that sounded.

Mush dipped his chin and looked at David from hooded eyes as if to say, _like you don't know_. "There's a CCC meeting tonight. Now, actually. I've got to get over to the house."

Given that he had the night off anyway, David seized the chance to satisfy his curiosity. "Do you mind if I go with you?"

A conflict between confusion and delight played across Mush's face. "Yeah, that would be cool. But, I thought . . . aren't you Jewish?"

David laughed. "Who told you that?"

A blush spread across Mush's cheeks as they started toward the stairs. "Oh, well, since you didn't come after Pastor Snyder invited you . . . and your name . . ."

"Well, actually my dad's family was Jewish and my mom was Catholic. When they got married they met in the middle and agreed on agnosticism."

"Oh." Mush tensed.

"It's a joke, Mush." He clapped the slightly shorter boy on the shoulder. "I just mean that religion wasn't part of the routine in our house, but we were encouraged to find a faith if we wanted one."

"I see. So you have brothers and sisters?"

Now David felt his muscles stiffen. "Uh, yeah. One of each."

For the rest of the walk to the fellowship house, David managed to steer the conversation away from questions about his family. Honestly he was surprised no on had asked about Sarah yet. She'd only talked to him two or three times in band, and that had been strictly on business, though occasionally she IMmed him at night if they were both still up. They never chatted for long, but small doses of Sarah were probably best. He kind of hated to admit it, but it was nice not to be completely ignored.

The house was just that -- a small white house on a corner just a few blocks off campus. Since the CCC was "nondenominational," several local parishes supported the organization, but most the attendees were Methodist or Lutheran or unaffiliated, Mush explained on the way over. "We don't get many Catholics," he paused and shot David a sly look, "or Jews." David laughed.

Looking around the living room crammed with college students, David did recognize quite a few faces from band. Some of them smiled or nodded if he happened to catch their eye. Oscar and Morris were there, too, though David was relieved to find neither of them was leading the worship discussion.

Instead, a gangly young man with reddish hair and freckles named Calvin that David thought he'd seen in the newspaper office a few times talked about relying on God to help yourself through the stressors of college life. Nothing Calvin said struck David as out of the ordinary or offensive or pointed. In fact, David was reminded that he could afford to be more patient with himself, and he began to wonder whether Spot had been too drunk to know what he was talking about.

The praise band was impressive, and David wondered where they found the time to practice, particularly since most of them were in marching band. He even joined in on some of the songs' chorus parts once he picked up on the words.

Toward the end of the hour-and-a-half meeting, Pastor Snyder took the floor. He'd been perched on a wooden chair all evening, occasionally inclining his head with a greasy half-smile in agreement with the speakers and readers. Now he stood at the center of the couches and chairs and asked everyone to bow their heads and "offer any intentions or prayers to the Lord."

A few people asked that for the group to pray for sick relatives, one girl prayed for the safety of her boyfriend who was overseas with the National Guard, and a boy quite seriously asked that Jesus help him find the monetary means to stay enrolled in school.

Then Pastor Snyder cupped his hands around his Bible and closed his eyes, titling his head at angle that gave him a double chin. "Lord, we pray for the cares and concerns of these young people gathered here in your name this evening. I personally pray for their continued devotion to you and your abiding rule. Protect them against the temptations they face daily."

None of that seemed ill-intentioned or "full of shit" as Blink had put it, but then David realized Snyder wasn't done.

Eyes still pinched shut, he continued. "Lord, together we also pray for those who have turned their backs on you whether through their choice of an unnatural homosexual lifestyle or decision to kill the life you planted within them. We ask that you help our great nation to do what is right; protect us from enemies both near our borders and far abroad, and guide our people away from the immoral and obscene messages that surround them and toward your everlasting truth. We pray all things in your name, Jesus Christ."

An adamant "amen" rose from the crowd of students. After a beat of silence, suddenly the room was full of cheerful conversation and people preparing to leave.

For the second time that evening, David was more than a little stunned.

Just after 9:00 that night, David was still replaying snippets of what Snyder had said in his mind. Maybe it was because he came from Chicago and was used to more liberal politics, but David hadn't even known people actually thought or talked like that, other than the religious right spokesmen in the news, anyway. He easily guessed why Blink wasn't a Snyder fan -- the bit about homosexuality had rankled David, too -- but he was even more curious about what Spot's beef with the CCC was.

David balanced his university-issue desk chair back on its haunches, fingers grazing his desktop to steady himself as he stared up at the TV which was stationed on top of the dresser. The door to his dorm room was open to the hallway, but he was so absorbed in the seventh inning of the baseball game, he didn't notice a visitor had arrived in the doorway until said visitor knocked.

His chair thunked back on all fours against the tile floor and David was startled to see Jack leaning against the painted doorjamb.

"Hey, Dave."

"Jack -- hi." Jack's smile told David he looked as bewildered as he felt. "What are you doing here?"

Jack's smile widened and he took a few steps into the room. "Well, I went to Race and Blink's, but Race was _busy_ with Lexie at her place, and Blink had some paper to write. So then I thought, 'Why not drop in on my pal Davey?'" He darted a few looks at the sparse room. "And I guess you still live alone, huh?"

"Oh, yeah. My roommate never moved in. The _Cougar News_ keeps printing stories about this housing shortage on campus, but my RD hasn't said anything about transferring someone in with me."

"They makin' you pay for a single?"

David shook his head. "Not as long as I'm willing to have a roommate."

"Sweet deal."

Jack dropped his gaze to the floor and David took the few-second reprieve to swallow what was left of his surprise. For having a "night off" the evening had certainly filled itself up in unexpected ways.

"Who's playin'?" Jack jerked his chin toward the TV.

"Cubs and Mets."

"Really?" Jack scooted the rest of the way into David's room and dropped onto the extra bed. "You a Cubs fan?"

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry."

David laughed. "It's a family tradition of sorts. Tell me you're not a Yankees fan."

"Hell no. Damn muckety-mucks don't know what it means to play the game."

When their eyes met over a shared smile, David's insides twisted in something like excitement, but he clenched his abs in an effort to squelch it.

They watched the rest of the game, bouncing between commentary on the action, theorizing about pitchers, and remembering favorite baseball moments.

"My dad used to take me to the Mets." Jack was now stretched out on the bed, feet propped on the bedstead, the spare blanket David had covered it with was wadded under his head. "When I was real small, anyway. Haven't been to a game since . . . well, it's been a long time."

He sensed Jack was skipping over something important, but David didn't want to push it. "We used to go with my dad, too. Even my sister liked being there."

Jack turned his attention from the TV to David. "You have a sister?"

It was clear Jack suspected something, but David didn't have much choice except to answer truthfully. "Yeah. She's older and we used to be close. Then she went off to college and we sort of drifted." Jack studied him for several seconds, half squinting as though debating whether or not to ask further questions. But he didn't, and David swooped with a question of his own. "Do you have any siblings?"

Jack's eyes were back on the TV. "No. Just me and my dad growin' up. Didn't know my mom that much."

Somehow David knew that was all the answer he was going to get.

That night when Jack left just after midnight, there were no awkward pauses, and David's heart didn't thump heavily in his chest. Jack didn't linger in his doorway, and David didn't wish he would have. Instead, two friends said "see ya," then one wandered down the hall while the other closed his door and moved into the suite's bathroom to brush his teeth.

Over the next two weeks, Jack appeared in David's doorway a few more times, and sometimes he even walked back to the dorms after rehearsal while David rode his bike slowly to keep pace. After Racetrack was fed up with Lexie, they occasionally hung out in his and Blink's room with Mush and Crutchy.

During rehearsals David and Jack talked and joked more with each other, particularly over some of the Latin show drill charts. Denton had an uncanny ability to innocently and accidentally come up with drill designs that were a little questionable.

One evening, the trumpet section had been hunched over their most recent pack of paper charts. "It looks like the whole band forms two circles," Lexie interpreted as drill instructor. "Well, four circles. Two big and two smaller inside."

David flipped to the page she was looking at in his own packet and felt his cheeks get hot. "Wait. I'm sorry, but doesn't this look like--"

"Tits!" Jack crowed, his eyes meeting David's for a split-second -- just long enough for David to feel as if Jack had silently asked him a question -- before plunging forward with the obvious. "Denton's made a tit chart!"

All the trumpets burst into laughter.

"Do you think he meant it?" one of the female third trumpets asked, blushing.

"Denton? I doubt the man's ever seen boobs," someone else rejoined.

David wondered about the truth of that statement, and what the kid might be implying.

Lexie's head flew up and she looked around the group, eye sparking. "Guys, it gets better. Look on page five -- _they rotate_."

And indeed, the next page showed arrows marking the direction in which the band members should march in their respective circle.

Between the inventive interpretations of drill charts in rehearsals, the shared dinners, and what they established as Man Movie nights, David fell into an easy friendship with Jack and the other boys. His lack of roommate made it possible for them to hang out in his room whenever, and he could stay up finishing his homework when needed without bothering anyone. He was gaining a reputation at the _News_ as a reliable and good writer, and even the midterms he faced didn't seem that daunting.

Only two things occasionally crept into his mind to trouble him.

The first was the CCC. Although he didn't make attending meetings part of his weekly routine, he applied a few innocuous questions to Mush now and again about the organization, Snyder, who was leading worship, etc. They weren't doing anything wrong, David knew, but something about that group wasn't wholly right, either.

The second troubling thing was actually a series of things. Of looks. From Jack. Some of the looks were questioning, like the one on the rotating boob chart day. Other times it seemed Jack was trying to work out a math problem in his head while his eyes briefly rested on David. And still other times the looks were appreciative or even proud.

But it wasn't so much the sentiment the looks conveyed that weighed on David's mind. It was how many of them there were.


	6. Man Movie Night

**Disclaimer:** Newsies are Disney's. Story contains slash. It also contains political and religious rhetoric, none of which reflects the views of Disney or FFnet or me, for that matter.

**A/N:** Backtrack! Chapter added because author is anal and couldn't let this go.

If you're coming to this out of sequence, here's a mini summary of chapter 5 to position you in the timeline before you read this chapter:

In "Meetings and Missing Answers" before an indoor band rehearsal, David falls into a trap set by Lexie to make Racetrack jealous. After rehearsal he overhears Blink and Mush in the band locker room lightly arguing about the CCC and its leader, Pastor Snyder. David awkwardly invites himself along to the meeting that night with Mush, to discover the Christian fellowship group is both not as bad and much more disturbing than he had expected. Back at his room that night, David has an unexpected visit from Jack -- the first in what becomes a pattern. He also begins to notice that Jack pays close visual attention to him, and doesn' know quite what to make of that.

* * *

**Chapter 6 -- Man-Movie Night**

It was Friday, which meant it was Man-Movie Night -- an unofficial tradition that had sprung up among Jack, Racetrack, Blink, and Mush that David had been adopted into. Typically they would rent or Netflix or borrow an action film, something supremely masculine, featuring lots of special effects, explosions, guns, and (likely) breasts. Some of those things interested David less than others, but he appreciated the social life Man-Movie Night offered.

Given that they all lived on the same floor (except Jack, of course, whose residence David had yet to hear of, much less see), it was easy to muster the men together on a Friday night, and they rotated rooms on a schedule that had more to do with Racetrack's love life and Crutchy's sleep cycle than fairness or practicality. Tonight, for example, they were at David's. Having no roommate to bother with was a plus, but even with the extra bed doubling as a couch seating was limited. And seeing as David had never found a scrap of carpet or wanted to invest in an area rug, the floor was an unappealing option. Though Mush had once pointed out that David's conscientiously (compulsively, Jack had corrected) swept floor tile was definitely less gross than the rarely vacuumed dark green carpet Racetrack and Blink had put down in their dorm room. And no one other than David ever seemed to worry about seating arrangements anyway, so he was learning to let it go.

At the moment his hosting worries had more to do with getting dinner through the door some time in the next hour. David had his cell phone in one hand, thumb primed to hit the call button for the pizza place that would deliver to campus, but no one had responded to his shouted question about what he should order. Racetrack had hooked up David's dinosaur Nintendo 64 and was endeavoring to beat his own record on Mario Bros. while Jack egged him on, awaiting his turn. Blink and Mush had stolen a sizeable amount of green grapes from the cafeteria and were tossing them, from opposite ends of the spare bed, at each other's heads to catch with their mouths. David had already resigned himself to sweeping out the ones they missed before they turned into shriveled raisins.

He sighed at the screen on his phone and considered dialing without consulting anyone and just ordering three supremes with anchovies out of spite, but then he heard Racetrack mutter a curse the doorbell-type sound of Mario Bros. being paused. He looked up to see Mario frozen mid-death-drop on the TV and Jack holding Racetrack's controller.

"Hey idiots," Jack called over his shoulder to Mush and Blink. "Knock it off for a second and tell David what you want on your pizza." He grinned up at David from where he was seated cross-legged on the floor. "I don't want any mushrooms."

David laughed his nervous laugh -- nervous for a reason he couldn't quite identify -- and grabbed a pen and pad of sticky notes to write down the results as they bartered topping combinations. It took ten minutes to get everybody happy, but then Mario resumed dying, Blink and Mush went back to throwing grapes, and David called in their order.

Tonight's movie was _Independence Day_, starring Will Smith, mostly because it was what somebody had lying around, but also because, as Blink put it, "Will Smith punches out an alien, and it's AWESOME." No one argued with that. (David thought about arguing, because technically Will Smith punches the alien's protective exoskeleton which doesn't make a lot of sense in terms of knocking it unconscious, but whatever.)

So the aliens blew up all the major cities and Will Smith had welcomed an alien to Earth with a punch to the exoskeleton and Vivica Fox, Smith's exotic dancer girlfriend, chatted up the direly injured first lady. It was around then that Jack observed, "Okay, so she's a stripper, but you know, there's not any other hot women in this movie."

"That's 'cause Blinky-boy chose it," Racetrack deadpanned from where he'd positioned the spare desk chair between the beds.

At David's desk, Jack choked on his sip of soda. From his seat on his bed, David reached over and clapped him on the back a few times, but sent a wry smile toward Blink, who was play-pouting from his spot on the other bed next to Mush. David had suspected Blink was gay, but that was his first confirmation of the fact.

"Whatever. You agree that Will Smith is AWESOME," Blink defended.

"Yeah, he is. I'm just sayin' you probably think he's 'awesome' for a few more reasons than I do."

"Hence the lack of hot women?" Mush followed up.

"Right," Jack and Racetrack chimed together. David rolled his eyes.

Mush shrugged. "It's a good movie anyway."

"Says the guy who has girls practically lining up to get in his pants," Racetrack said. They all laughed at that as much as Will Smith throwing a temper tantrum about the smelly alien carcass on screen. "You could get any chick you want, which is damn impressive for a clarinet player."

Amused, David chewed on his pizza and watched Mush's eyes go innocently wide.

"And anyway, that's not true," Mush demurred.

Blink got an impish look on his face. "Oh, yeah. I kind of think it is."

In the movie Will Smith was greeted by Dr. Crazy Hair (a.k.a. Brent Spiner, a.k.a. Lieutenant Commander Data from _Star Trek: The Next Generation_ -- and David would never admit to knowing that) at Area 51.

Mush fiddled with the tab on his soda can. "Name one."

"Dana," four voices said in unison.

"And probably Lou," Blink considered.

Jack burped then added, "And maybe Sarah. She told me she thought you were hot last year."

At Jack's mention of his sister, David felt suddenly queasy. He put down his pizza slice.

Conversation dissolved in favor of cheers and groans as Brent Spiner dissected and was subsequently strangled by the alien. David was a little boggled that Racetrack and Blink could probably recite the movie dialogue from memory on their own if asked, judging by how they kept saying lines before the characters.

Once the cool stuff was over and the first lady is dying the hospital, Blink launched right back into the subject. "Dude, have you dated _anyone_ since Sarah?" he asked Jack point blank.

Jack grinned, leaning back in David's study chair to plant his heels on the desk and cupping interlocked fingers at the base of his skull. "Define 'dated,'" he said.

"You're asking the wrong question," Racetrack said through a mouthful of pizza. He swallowed then addressed Jack. "Hey Cowboy, you knocked boots with any babe since Sarah?"

Jack touched the bill of his baseball cap as if it were a Stetson in a lazy two-finger salute. On screen Adam Baldwin shot a soda can off the captured alien craft.

Racetrack snickered. "See, you gotta phrase it right," he said to Blink.

David pushed his unfinished pizza further away. Still balancing on the back legs of the chair, Jack reached over to grab it without asking. Only once he'd got half a slice in his mouth did he quirk a "you okay?" eyebrow at David. David sent him a smile he didn't feel.

This was the first time he'd heard Jack address his dating life, in particular his failed relationship with Sarah. It was brought up so infrequently most of the time David managed to forget about it. But there was something about Jack's direct acknowledgment just now that made David's stomach roll.

While David fretted and half-watched the movie, Racetrack was razzing Blink. The first thing David heard as he surfaced from exploring the depths of his discomfort was Racetrack saying "You so starved for action up here you gotta get off askin' everybody else about it?"

David chuckled, if a little belatedly. Blink's neck and cheeks turned a pleasant shade of pink and he chucked a wadded up napkin at his roommate's head. He also darted a look at Mush and his pink darkened a shade or two. David idly wondered what that was about, but as the American forces geared up to kick a lot of alien ass and Will Smith was explaining his cigar tradition to Jeff Goldblum, his cell phone rang.

"Crap! Sorry," David hopped up and snatched his cell phone from the corner of his desk near Jack's feet and trucked out into hall.

"Hey, Ma?" he breathed, closing his door behind him. "Now's kind of not a good time. Can I call you --"

"You don't have a proper hello for your mother, David?" his mother teased.

David leaned against the cinderblock wall and sighed. It would be easier and therefore faster to just capitulate rather than let her keep up the martyr act. "Hi, Ma. I'm glad you called, but can I call you back because the guys and I are--"

But Esther Jacobs would not be dismissed or dissuaded. She started with the important stuff, explaining that she and David's father and Les wouldn't be able to visit at all that fall due to household budget constraints asked him to pass the word along to Sarah, whom she'd tried to call but couldn't get a hold of. _Because she was smart enough not to answer the phone_, David thought.

From there David's mother asked her usual litany of questions about classes and newspaper staff and band. Just when that segue seemed perfect and David again tried to tell her he had friends waiting, she jogged her own memory about something that had to do with Les and his burgeoning talent as a percussionist (David was confronted by the disturbing image of his little brother growing up to be a cocky percussionist, a la Racetrack or Spot) and that spiraled into mention of Les's practicing at home and that led to stories of their father puttering around the house, and on and on.

Somewhere around the play-by-play of an argument over making potato salad, David gave in and sunk down the wall into seated position.

By the time he got off the phone ("You have friends over? My goodness, why didn't you tell me?") and back into his room, Vivica Fox and the woman playing Jeff Goldblum's ex-wife or whatever were running across the desert to greet their victorious cigar-smoking heroes while peoples around the world cheered the fiery remains of the alien spaceships.

"Don't worry, Davey. Good guys won," Jack called.

David laughed. "Oh, great. Thanks. I was worried."

Blink bounced across the mattress, nearly bowling Mush over in the process, and clambered to his feet. "Never doubt the AWESOMENESS of Will Smith."

"Hey, do you have your room key?" Racetrack asked, smacking Blink gently on the back of his head, almost unbalancing him as Blink worked his feet back into his sneakers. "I'm taking off for the night."

"I--" Blink frowned and patted down his pockets.

Mush tossed his crumpled paper plate and made a basket into the trash. "Don't worry about it, I've got mine."

Man-Movie Night clearly over, David did quick check of the pizza boxes to make sure no slices were left and gathered them into one armload. He followed Blink and Mush out with the pizza boxes and dropped a "see ya" over his shoulder as he went the opposite direction down the hall to stuff in the big communal trash bin. When he got back to the room Racetrack had departed, too, no doubt heading to Lexie's. That left only Jack, who was collecting soda cans from around the room into a plastic grocery sack.

"Oh," David said as much out of surprise that Jack was still there as his efforts to help clean up. "You don't have to do that. I mean, I only got rid of the pizza boxes because they smell." David mentally winced. He was always kind of embarrassed when he managed to blurt his fastidiousness all over other people.

Jack wiggled a can that had been Racetrack's to make sure it was empty before adding it to the bag. "Nah. It's no problem." He stooped to grab Blink's can, adding that too, and caught sight of something beneath the bed. "You let us trash your place," he said as he got down on all fours. David watched as the tops of Jack's boxers appeared from under the elastic waist of his soccer shorts. They were a muted red color. As Jack stretched an arm under the bed, he made a face and his voice strained some. "It's only fair somebody help you out. Ah!" He sighed and extracted his hand, holding a few dusty grapes in his palm.

David laughed and grabbed his desk trashcan for Jack to plop the grapes in. "Thanks."

Jack got to his feet and handed the bag of cans to David, making solid eye contact as he said, "Like I said, no problem. Happy to help," and time froze for just a few seconds. Until David realized he was still holding a trash can and recycling and should probably do something about that.

This was a new level of -- distraction? An unsettling level. A level high enough it was indicating attraction. David's stomach churned and he tamped down on that hard. Gauging anything about Jack that he didn't openly let you see was hard enough. David wasn't about to start making guesses about whether Jack's sexuality might be more fluid than everyone assumed. He'd dated Sarah, for God's sakes. It didn't get much clearer or straighter than that.

But those intense looks he turned on David -- like the one happening right now, that made David's scalp tingle and cheeks flush -- could maybe be explained if Jack were wondering . . . .

David let that thought die a quick death.

He cleared his throat but forgot what he'd been about to say, then managed to move instead. _Right. Moving._ He stuck the trashcan next to his desk and deposited the bag of cans on the floor of his closet by the door. Somewhere in the room behind him, Jack cleared his throat, too.

"So, that was your mom earlier? On the phone?"

David clapped a palm to his face. There were very few ways this night could continue to get embarrassing. He shook off the self-consciousness and came back into the room proper. "Yeah. You'd think two phone calls already this week would be enough. She doesn't really get the Friday nights kind of equal social life now. Guess that tells you what kind of kid I was in high school."

Okay, well, there. David just found one of those ways to embarrass himself further. This kind of verbal ineptitude was also indicative of attraction -- it was his M.O. to become a blathering idiot around guys he liked, and he was not about to let that happen with Jack. Because he was not going to let himself like Jack in that way.

Jack smiled at him slightly, and settled at the edge of the spare bed, hands clasped between his knees. "You close to your folks, then?"

David moved to his desk chair, scooting it in closer to his desk from where Jack had abutted it to the bed earlier, and sat down to check his e-mail briefly. "Uh, yeah." No pressing e-mails, just stuff for class he could worry about later, and a forward from Les. "I mean, my dad doesn't have a job right now -- he got laid off when the plant he worked for went bankrupt -- and he's having trouble finding another one because he doesn't have a degree in anything. My mom's a secretary at an elementary school, so her job's okay, but Dad's driving her nuts being around the house all the time."

He signed out of instant messenger on the off chance Jack went to use his computer and recognized Sarah's flute_flirt92 screenname. It wasn't out of the question David would have his drum major on his buddies list, but her presence in the "family" category might be a problem. "My little brother still lives with them," he continued, "and my sister is . . . busy a lot . . . so I'm the one they call to complain about each other. Plus there's the whole first-generation-in-college thing, so they check in all the time."

Jack was giving him one of his happy, eye-twinkling smiles. David had this one narrowed down to meaning Jack was mentally making fun of you in his head or genuinely delighted by something you had said. He always leaned in favor of the former. "Sorry. It's kind of lame, I know." He got up to resettle on his own bed as Jack shook his head.

"No. It's real nice, Dave. Honest."

David was burning to ask Jack about his family in return, about where his dad was now, about why he never mentioned his mom. But he already knew he wouldn't get an answer. Jack always found a way to deflect those sorts of questions, or distract you from his having to answer. So far David had heard a handful of anecdotes about Jack's past, most dealing with stuff he'd done with his dad when he was very young. It made him more curious, of course -- the journalist in him know there must be a story there -- but he suspected pushing for answers would push Jack away.

Conversely, whenever Jack started asking him questions, he seemed to relax, as though he truly enjoyed hearing about David's sheltered formative years in the suburbs of Chicago. Tonight most of his questions were about family, David's parents specifically. David was happy to oblige, without naming names, of course. He liked telling stories, crafting them to maximize the drama or punch up details he thought would elicit a laugh, and Jack was an ideal audience. David couldn't help but feel a little flattered, glow a little under the attention. It wasn't the first time over an hour slipped by between them unnoticed.

It'd been late when the other guys left, and now it was almost two hours beyond that. Jack lay sprawled on his stomach, a pillow gathered in his arms beneath his cheek. His side of the conversation had become increasingly monosyllabic, moving toward Cro-Magnon, in the last half hour. Making him walk all the way home now -- wherever home was for Jack, off campus somewhere for certain -- when he was clearly so close to sleep, would have been cruel.

After a few minutes pause David ventured softly, "Jack?"

"Mmrgph?"

He kept his voice just above a whisper as he said, "You can just stay here tonight, you know."

"Nn. 'M go'n." Jack mumbled into his pillow. He made an attempt to scrape himself off the mattress, but didn't get much further than rolling onto his back.

"Really, Jack." David didn't know much about how and why Jack was the way he was, but he knew Jack had a definite aversion to relying on others, or accepting any kind of proverbial handout. "You don't have to go. I really don't mind."

"No?" Jack's eyebrows raised though his eyes stay closed. It made David smile.

"No."

"Mm," he acknowledged, and toed off his sneakers. "M'kay. Th'ngx, Davey."

And with that, he was out. David rolled his eyes, but wasn't all that surprised. He stared up at the ceiling for a minute, listening to Jack's slow breathing and adjusting to having a slumbering occupant in the room. It was odder than he thought it would be. To have Jack, someone so defined by movement and words, lying with slack stillness and verbal silence was somehow lonely and comforting at the same time. Jack: David's section leader, friend, and now unofficial roommate.

He got up and brushed his teeth, shucked his shorts and t-shirt, but hesitated before flicking off the overhead light. Jack lay on his back, hands loose on his chest, head cocked up and to the side on a pillow, but he was on top of the blanket David kept draped over the bare mattress. David debated for a moment then grabbed an afghan hand-knit in the Northern Midwest University school colors his mother had sent with him from the top shelf of his closet. He bit his lip as he swooped the blanket out over Jack's body and let it settle onto him, mostly from his waist down, just so he'd have it if he needed it. Then he hit the light switch and crossed the cool tile to his own bed.

A lot of things that could have crept into David's head as he lay there in the dark, but his mind went first to Sarah. He wondered what she must think of his spending so much time with her ex-boyfriend. Granted, she likely didn't know quite how _much_ time, but just that they'd befriended each other in band. And she certainly didn't know that right here in this moment Jack Kelly was sleeping feet away, or that David was developing a crush on him.

_No_, he thought, tightening the knot in his stomach against that. _No, that is not what's going on_. He liked Jack, and thought he maybe could _like_-like Jack if, you know, life circumstances were entirely different. If Jack weren't his sister's ex-boyfriend. If Jack had any kind of an inkling that he could be into guys. If anybody at this school knew David was into guys.

But Jack was, and Jack didn't, and nobody did.

So. Jack was a guy. A friend. Just like everybody else. Except -- and David was hit en force by that rush of tingling around the crown of his head he felt when Jack focused attention on him and the warm flush of his skin when Jack had first touched him -- not like anyone else at all.

David sighed and rolled over, deliberately facing the wall and away from Jack, and ordered his brain to shut up and sleep.

---

When David woke up Saturday morning, Jack was gone. The blanket of the spare bed was smoothed and squared as if no one had disturbed it in days, and David blearily considered the possibility he'd dreamt that Jack had slept there. But then he caught sight of the blue and gold afghan, folded neatly and draped over the footboard.


	7. Everybody Out

**Disclaimer: **Newsies are Disney's. Story contains slash. It also contains political and religious rhetoric, none of which reflects the views of Disney or FFnet or me, for that matter.

**Notice:** Please note that the rating for this story has been upped to M.

**A/N:** My continued thanks to my beta clio21000 and my faithful readers and reviewers -- your support does wonders when point of view switches and writing convincing villain-ish dialogue get me down. Now hang on to your computers, kids. These next few chapters are going to be a wild ride. . . .**  
**

* * *

**Chapter 7 -- Everybody Out**

For weeks Blink had been very supportive -- and very patient. He was careful not to push Mush to discuss the issue, but was ready to listen when Mush was ready to talk. He was sensitive to the fact that Mush's confession of his crush didn't automatically mean he was agreeing to be Blink's boyfriend. He was cautious and conscious of physical contact, even though his desire to touch Mush had increased like 700 times. They'd exchanged a few more closed-mouthed kisses, cuddled on the futon when their roommates were out, quickly grasped hands in stolen moments. Little stuff. Cute stuff. Stuff that was great, Blink acknowledged, but made him feel like a sports car stuck going twenty-miles-per-hour.

So when Mush nearly tackled him with a kiss in the Fine Arts building men's room on a mid-October Monday afternoon, Blink was flabbergasted -- and very turned on.

His hands were still wet from rinsing (actually, the faucet was still on, too), but that didn't stop Blink from clapping them to Mush's frame and returning the generous compliment of tongue his friend was paying him. He felt Mush sneak a hand to his chest, palm placed over Blink's heart, and smiled as much as the kissing allowed. But when Mush's thumb stroked Blink's nipple, Blink yelped and chuckled in the same breath, gently stopping Mush's hand.

"Hey, there. Take it easy, Mikey." The surge of blood that had sunk from his head toward his pelvis left Blink with a dazed sort of smile.

Mush pushed away from Blink, scowling. "Why? Why should I?"

Uh-oh.

Blink's smile dropped to a frown. He reached over and turned off the faucet, buying him a second to think. Most of his body seemed to agree that Mush's question was an excellent one, but something in the back of Blink's mind made him say, "Because, Mikey. For one thing we're in a public restroom."

Mush shook his head and crossed his arms. "Try again."

"What?"

"That's not a good enough reason. Ever since I told you that I like boys -- that I like _you_, Ryan -- you keep treating me like I'm made out of glass or something. Like I'm gonna fall apart. I realized I was gay because I _liked _it when you kissed me, remember? Call me crazy, but I thought maybe we'd do it more after that." Frustration spent, some of the bravado left Mush's voice and expression. "I -- I thought you liked me, too."

Blink felt his face get red. How had he managed to mess this up? Not wanting to scare Mush by going too fast, he'd scared him by going too slow. A grin burst across his face. Luckily, the situation was very fixable.

His hand had just reached Mush's waist when the men's room door swung open. Blink yanked his arm away and turned to the sink. He wrenched on the faucet and shoved his hands in the streaming cold water.

"Hello, boys." Denton greeted guilelessly.

Blink watched in the mirror's reflection as Denton shut himself in one of the stalls. He left the water running, and in minute or so the toilet flushed and Denton moved to the other sink, whistling as he washed his hands. He didn't seem to notice that Mush was still frozen in the center of the room or that the cuffs of Blink's long-sleeved tee were getting soaked. Denton pumped paper towel out of the dispenser and nudged the door open with his shoulder. "See you guys at rehearsal. Twenty minutes."

Exhaling sharply, Blink turned off the faucet for the second time and turned to face Mush's doe-brown gaze. Within seconds their mouths were working deeply together and Blink's wet hands were again clapped on Mush. This time he slipped them under Mush's shirt, which produced a very satisfying gasp and shiver and allowed Blink to explore his smooth skin. This time when Mush grazed a thumb over Blink's nipple, Blink moaned and moved his hands to Mush's ass, pulling him closer to the throbbing in his own jeans. They kept at each other, stopping short of shedding clothing, for minutes more.

"Woah -- Looky here. Fucking fairies."

Blink and Mush broke apart as snarling laughter echoed around the tiled room.

"I always pegged you as a fag, Mush. I suppose your sick friend here talked you into it." Oscar Delancey grinned like a child on his birthday.

And Blink really, really wanted to punch him.

He lunged forward but Mush stopped his fist. "And I always pegged you as an asshole, Oscar. Only I'm sorry to find out I'm right."

Oscar's eyes turned into slits. "Wait 'til I tell Snyder about this, Meyers. You won't think that's so funny."

Blink's stomach churned up into his throat and his shoulders tensed. Not again. Not to Mush. Not again. He looked at his best friend -- who was locked in a steely staring contest with Oscar -- and wriggled his fist out of Mush's grasp, then slipped in his open hand instead.

"Ugh. Fags." Oscar backed out the door, glaring.

Blink squeezed Mush's hand to get his attention, and Mush slowly bobbed his head a few times without looking at him. They both knew what this meant.

* * *

The news reached David half way through rehearsal. He'd vaguely noticed some murmuring among the CCC kids, but that wasn't out of the ordinary. Dana stalking over to Mush and shouting while repeatedly stabbing a finger in his chest as soon as Denton called a break was out of the ordinary, however.

David looked at Jack. "Lovers' quarrel?"

Jack shrugged. "Maybe. Looks serious."

Sarah had swooped under Dana and appeared to be talking her down, while Skittery consulted with Blink about something.

"I'm going to find out." David started to jog across the field.

"Nosey!" Jack called.

But David wasn't the only nosey one. A circle of bodies and rumors quickly formed around the scene. From a trombone, David learned that Oscar had caught Blink screwing Mush in the band room. A percussionist corrected that it had been a stall in the men's room. A flute revealed that Mush and Dana had hooked up only a week ago but it hadn't gone well, so Mush had turned gay.

David's heart picked up speed and he swallowed against a lump in his throat -- he'd heard this kind of garbage before. Lou elbowed David, a look of concern in her eyes. "Hey. Don't listen to that crap. We'll get the real story."

He gave a solemn nod.

Sarah managed to calm Dana and escorted her out of the circle, ordering the onlookers to break it up. Skittery slapped Blink on the shoulder reassuringly then trotted toward the scaffold tower where Denton stood, probably waiting for an explanation.

As the crowd drifted away, Racetrack and Jack approached. The five boys and Lou huddled together in the October evening, the air chilled further by the suspicious looks they were receiving from all directions. David wasn't sure if Blink and Mush should have their say first. Lou, however, didn't hesitate.

"So you and Blink, huh Mush?"

Mush, who'd been staring at the pavement, lifted his head and looked gratefully at Lou. "Yeah." A quick smile lit up his face then he cleared his throat. "Oscar, he -- well, he sort of -- he saw --"

"He saw us making out in the Fine Arts bathroom," Blink finished.

A somewhat awkward chuckle rounded the group.

"You takin' lessons from Lexie there boys?" Racetrack asked, smirk in place. David was pretty sure he had turned red up to his ears at the mention of the weeks-old memory, but the joke dissipated any leftover tension. Both Blink and Mush blushed, too.

"Well, just to be safe you'll have to try to keep your hands off each other around the band for awhile." Lou cautioned lightly.

Racetrack repositioned his cap on his head. "Hey, you two haven't been up to anything in my bunk, have ya?"

Mush's cheeks turned even redder. "No! Today was the first --"

"Okay, okay -- enough with the gory details," Jack dipped his head and swatted his hands around his head as if batting mosquitoes away from his ears.

Sarah's whistle sounded. David punched Mush gently in the shoulder before he, Race and Jack scooted back to their places. Halfway there, Spot slipped between David and Race, taking lanky paces backwards to make eye contact -- which Racetrack was avoiding, David noticed.

"So Meyers is a queer?" Spot asked.

Before David could protest the derogatory term, Race replied with a clipped, "Yep." His face was tight and pinched as the bill of his cap.

Spot squinted for a few seconds. "Huh. Kids these days." He turned around and broke away toward his own coordinate.

David shrugged off his confusion over that little exchange as he stopped two steps off the forty and watched Jack settle into place on the yard-line itself. The news about Mush surprised him, and he wondered what Jack made of it. Maybe it wasn't as big a deal to him because he'd known Blink and Mush longer and that's why he hadn't said anything. Or maybe he was freaked out by it. David's abs clenched in that now-familiar way they had whenever he thought too deeply about Jack.

Sarah called for horns up, and David took one last sideways glance at Jack's form. He was so damn hard to read.

* * *

Blink didn't sleep much that night, but it wasn't because bad memories crept into his dreams -- it was the bad memories that kept him awake in the first place. He heard Snyder's snaky accusations like he was in the room, and his cheek and ribs ached like they still had bruises.

Race -- who rarely got more than four hours of sleep anyway -- did his best to reassure him and draw his attention to the lame sci-fi movie on TV or his most recent online poker triumph, but Blink's every thought turned back to Mush or to last year.

Due to the lack of sleep and the continued whispers that surrounded him the next day in his music classes (which were the majority of them), Blink's concentration and spirit were both exceptionally low. He met Mush for lunch, as usual, and discovered he was having the same kind of day.

"Nobody's said anything really. Not directly to me, anyway. It's just a bunch of weird looks and people stopping talking when I walk by."

Blink's heart sank a little lower. It was one thing to deal with flack about being gay himself, but to have Mush dragged through the same crap made it all worse. He stabbed at the cafeteria's version of macaroni and cheese on his plate. "Mush, I'm really sorry."

"Apology not accepted," Mush replied, taking a swig of his soda.

"But yesterday, if I hadn't --"

"Hey, dumbass. I tackled you."

"Well, the first time you did, but then I --"

Mush's grin was enough to cut him short. "You can't honestly tell me you're sorry you got to make out with me."

That did it. Blink smiled. "No. Not sorry about that." He held Mush's (rather suggestive) gaze for a few seconds until Mush glanced down at the yellowish mash on Blink's plate and pointed to it with his fork.

"Okay then. Shut up and eat your . . . whatever that is."

Blink knew that Mush's bold talk was partly a sham -- underneath it he was probably pretty scared, and at least a little pissed -- but Blink appreciated the brave front. And, actually, Take-Charge Mush was kind of hot.

Hours later, Blink sat in the passenger seat as Mush pulled his beat-up station wagon into the parking lot row just off the practice field. Mush turned back the key and unclipped his safety belt while Blink studied the scene through the windshield: just an average evening out there. It was possible this was all just going to fade away. It was possible the rumors were already dying out and anyone who had a real problem with Blink and Mush was already being silenced.

Possible. But not likely.

He swung his head toward Mush. "You ready for this?"

Mush's jaw was set in determination. In his eyes, however, Blink thought he saw something like disappointment, like for the first time the world had dealt him a hand he couldn't play -- Blink definitely had listened to Racetrack too much last night.

"Yeah." Mush sighed.

"It might not be bad," offered Blink.

Mush shot him a doubtful glare.

Blink feigned innocence. "What? I said _might_."

Mush slugged him the arm as he leaned into the backseat for his clarinet. Blink felt him pause as he shifted his weight back to the driver's seat, and turned his attention from the sax case between his knees to his friend. Mush's soft eyes and snub nose and full lips were close. Intentionally close. Blink pressed closer.

This, he thought as he sucked lightly on Mush's bottom lip, this is our first _real_ kiss.

Unfortunately they weren't sharing it alone, which Blink realized once Mush shyly pulled back and he saw band members walking past Mush's car. They wore curious or slightly disgusted or rather amused expressions.

"Oh dammit." Blink muttered as he pushed open the car door.

"We gotta cut back on the PDA," Mush joked nervously, following suit.

Blink didn't lower his voice now that he was out of the car. "That's the point Mush. We shouldn't have to worry about where we are."

He shut the station wagon door and was immediately shoved into it and pinned with a gruff hand. His left arm -- the one not holding the sax case -- was wrenched up his back.

"Hey!" Mush yelled from the other side of the vehicle.

"It's okay, Mikey." Blink called back, his good side was pressed hard up against the car so he couldn't see who had him in a lock, but he had a pretty good guess. "Morris, just lemme go. I didn't do anything to you." As a response, Morris twisted his arm a harder.

"He won't hurt you too bad, _Twink_. We just wanna chat with your little friend Mush here. See what he has to say for himself."

"You know, Oscar, I think you're jealous," Blink said with as much volume as he could manage. He wished he could see Mush, see what else was happening. Anger pumped through him. As long as he could keep their attention on him, maybe they wouldn't hassle Mush. "Or maybe you are, Morris. What do you say? Wanna give it a go?" He was yanked away from the side of the car only to be slammed into it again.

"Okay fine," he heard Mush shout. "Fine! You want answers? Listen up everyone. I'm in the praise band and I go to church every Sunday. I like hockey. I work out. I happen to play clarinet, and yeah, I kissed Blink. I kissed a boy. That doesn't make me a bad person. Maybe you're mad, _Dana_," there was a sneer in Mush's voice Blink had never heard before, "but I can't help --"

Blink fought against Morris as Mush was cut off. What happened? If someone had hit him . . . He rocked his free wrist a few times, working up momentum with his sax case until it whacked into Morris' knee. The bigger boy let go of him, clutching his leg in pain, and Blink skirted out from between him and the car.

* * *

David's heart was in his throat when he arrived at Mush's side, and it wasn't just from his mad dash across the practice lot. He stared down Oscar, trying to ignore the other two dozen people scattered around the edge of the field and the vehicles. "C'mon, Mush. They're not going to listen right now." He tugged at the elbow of Mush's sweatshirt, but Mush pulled out of his grasp, glaring at the milling crowd.

Sarah and Skittery were fast approaching from the same direction David had come. He glanced toward the street in time to see Jack jog up; his eyes darted from David to Mush to Oscar and back to David. Instinctively, David raised his chin a little higher, a silent signal that he had the situation under control.

Just then Blink barreled into Mush's other side. David was relieved to see he was in one piece."You okay?" Blink nodded, out of breath. "Good. Now, really, let's go." He tried to usher the other boys away from the cars.

"What do you know," Oscar exclaimed, recapturing the bystanders' attention and crossing his arms in self-satisfaction. "Mushy's got two boyfriends now!"

"I'd rather be his than yours, Oscar. You still smell," David spat over his shoulder. Only after the words were out did the implication strike him. He sent up a split-second prayer that Oscar might not catch it while continuing to push a stubbornly strong Mush away from the cars and toward the empty practice field. At least Blink was helping now.

"Don't tell me you're one of them, too." Oscar scoffed.

David's back stiffened and he stopped mid-step. Damn. He looked fully at Blink, whose eye was wide and wary, before taking a few thoughtful steps to turn around. By the time he again faced Oscar, David had made his decision. "Then I won't, because it's none of your business anyway."

At the corner of his vision, he saw Sarah's jaw drop. "You mean you _are_?"

An unexpected smile crossed David's face. This wasn't funny -- at all, really -- but Sarah had a way of making herself a perfect target. "Yep, that's right, _sis_. Your little brother's gay."

"Woah"s and whispers threaded through the gathered crowd, but the only person David watched for his reaction was Jack. He thought he saw Jack cock an eyebrow before Sarah scooped a hand around his upper arm and dragged him to the nearest sideline, out of anyone else's earshot.

"You're gay? You never told me that!"

They'd stopped, but Sarah still gripped his arm. He swung out of her clasp. "Yeah, and you've been so forthcoming about your love life to me in the past few years."

Sarah folded her arms and shifted her weight to one leg. "Do mom and dad know?"

"Not yet." It's not that he was hiding it from them, exactly. It was more of a don't-ask-don't-tell arrangement. They were so delighted to hear David wanted to transfer to the university Sarah attended -- keep the family together, Esther always said -- they hadn't bothered to ask why he was transferring from a better school that was actually closer to home.

"Shit, David. You really like boys?"

David smiled, mostly because he knew it would irritate her more. "Yeah. You do too, right?"

His sister rolled her eyes. "Oh, please."

He shrugged. "Just checking."

That evening after rehearsal David conferred with Mush and Blink briefly, just to make sure they were both truly okay. He wasn't worried about himself -- the news that David was Sarah's little brother was creating more of a buzz than the revelation of his sexual preference. After he received several assurances that they were fine, David strapped his trumpet case to his bike and headed back to his room alone. He had a biology lab quiz to study for, so he hadn't been planning on joining the other guys for dinner anyway.

But as he shut off the TV and climbed into bed later that night, he fought off a twinge of disappointment -- he hadn't entirely abandoned the possibility (or hope, he admitted) that Jack might have stopped by.

In the newspaper office the next day, David spotted Calvin, the redhead from the CCC, across the room. He gave a quick wave hello, but his editor was about get off the phone so he didn't want to walk over and strike up a conversation and risk losing one of her few spare moments during deadline. Calvin waved back, but he was gone before David finished talking to Kristy.

"You in band, Jacobs?" Kristy asked him as he shuffled his newspaper folder back into his bulging backpack.

"Yeah. I play trumpet. Why?"

Kristy shrugged. "No reason."

David was pretty sure there was a reason -- Kristy wasn't news editor of the weekly school paper for nothing -- but he wasn't too concerned about whatever rumors were circulating. Sticks and stones, etc.

"What do you say about trying a hand at the opinion section?" Kristy's green eyes were fixed on him. "We could use another good columnist."

His own column? David gulped. "Wow. That's a really nice offer . . ." But somehow he couldn't make himself say yes. It was so abrupt, and it meant he might have to scale back his news work.

Kristy sensed his hesitation. "It's okay if you want to think about it. Offer stands. Just let me know within a week or so."

"Yeah, sure. I will. Thanks for thinking of me."

Kristy smiled. "No problem."

By band practice that evening, David felt steady. Prepared for anything. Most of the homophobic crap flying around was going to be aimed at Mush and Blink, but some of it was bound to hit him, too. He'd stand up for them again if necessary -- doesn't matter what the cause, David heard his dad's voice in his head, you have a better chance to win if you stick together.

It seemed Sarah, or maybe Skittery, had tipped off Denton about the conflict stirring in the band, because before rehearsal got underway he made a pointed but still somehow euphemistic speech about teamwork and setting aside differences. To David's mild surprise, the lecture effectively soothed tensions for the hour and a half of music and drill review.

Not until practice was well over and most everyone had left did the Delanceys resume their narrow-minded nonsense.

David was waiting for Racetrack and Jack to finish packing up the equipment truck exactly as he had for umpteen Wednesday evenings before. Jack still hadn't spoken to him beyond the necessary section-leader type stuff, and David was hoping that might change at dinner. Tonight Mush had elected not to attend the CCC meeting, and he and Blink had just consented to go grab a table for them in the cafeteria when Oscar and Morris loped over. They passed Mush and Blink, shouldering them hard to get through, and planted themselves in front of David where he sat on the autumn-cooled pavement.

"You coming to the meeting?" Oscar gritted out.

Of all the things David had been expecting to hear, that was not one. "The CCC meeting?"

"No, the gay pride convention. Yeah. CCC. We figure that fairy's beyond saving," he jerked a thumb over his shoulder to Mush, "but maybe if you didn't hang around with that fruit, you wouldn't have the sort of 'feelings,'" Oscar twinkled his fingers in the air, "you claim to."

For a moment, David wasn't sure Oscar was serious, but the Delanceys stood their ground, apparently expecting an answer.

Something else occurred to David. "Wait, you think it spreads? Like a disease?" His incredulity was obvious.

"Shut up." Morris said threateningly, and loudly. From between Morris' legs, David saw Race tap Jack in the chest to get his attention and point toward the Delanceys' backs.

"People can pick up certain lifestyles from their friends," Oscar suggested, sounding like he was reading from a prepared statement. "And sometimes those lifestyles are _unhealthy_. We're offering you a chance to lead a better life, Jacobs."

David couldn't help himself -- he laughed.

Jack snuck up close behind the shorter Delancey brother, causing him to jump when he spoke. "Snyder tell you to say that, Oscar?"

Oscar sneered. Morris cringed. "Just doing my Christian duty, Kelly. Some of us don't plan on burning in hell."

Jack clenched his jaw and fist at the same time, and David got to his feet. "Hey. Let's be reasonable here," he said, holding up a hand to each boy's chest. Mush and Blink, who retreated at first, now inched toward the four of them.

Oscar feinted toward Jack, who edged angry steps forward. "Jack, don't." David already felt his warning was useless.

"C'mon, Cowboy," Oscar jeered. He tossed his head and glance to Morris. Immediately the heavy-limbed trombonist caught David in a bracing body lock. "We're gonna fix your fag pal Davey. Fix him so he can't piss."

David tried elbowing Morris in the stomach, but Morris just grunted and tightened his hold. When Blink made a move to help, Mush put out a cautioning hand -- Oscar and Jack were circling one another.

Jack's punch landed on Oscar's chin almost before David realized he'd thrown it. Oscar reeled back and Morris released David, jumping over to steady his brother instead.

Jack shook his knuckles and grimaced. "So whaddya say, Oscar? Does it feel like I'm unhealthy to you?"

Oscar put a hand to his bottom lip and swiped off a trickle of blood. He glared.

"Well, good," Jack concluded. "'Cause you were just punched by a fag."


	8. Name in the Papes

**Disclaimer: **Newsies are Disney's. Story contains slash. It also contains political and religious rhetoric, none of which reflects the views of Disney or FFnet or me, for that matter.

**A/N:** Thanks yet again to the reviewers, readers, and my beta clio21000. Just so everyone knows, the next chapter may not be up for a few weeks because I'm in the process of moving halfway across the country. But once I'm settled, count on a big, juicy update.

* * *

**Chapter 8 -- Name in the Papes**

David wasn't the only one in shock. Racetrack's eyes bulged, Blink stood agape, and Mush's eyebrows trembled. The way Jack's arms hung freely at his sides and his chin was angled up -- just a little too defensively -- hinted that he was startled, too. David hadn't moved, his hand halted at his shoulder where he'd been rubbing out the sting of Morris' hard shove.

"You're not a fag, Kelly." Oscar dabbed at his bleeding lip again.

Jack's body tensed and he pumped the fingers of his right hand. "You really want to call me a liar right now?"

Oscar continued to glare, nursing his jaw for a silent minute. Then he turned his back to Jack and walked of with Morris close behind. He spat at the pavement as he passed David.

Jack didn't move until the Delancey brothers crossed the lot and climbed into their pick-up truck, although Mush, Blink, and Racetrack had drawn in around him. David stayed where he was.

Jack's gay? Jack's gay. _Jack_ is gay.

Somehow, David couldn't wrap his head around the fact. It did explain all those probing looks Jack had been giving him. And it meant . . . well, it could mean . . . maybe he felt . . .

David stopped his thoughts right there.

Over the other boys' heads, Jack gazed at David, numbly ignoring their questions. David knew he should walk over to him, say something to him. Maybe, "thanks." Maybe, "Why didn't you just tell me?" But Jack could have asked him the same thing, and he hadn't.

Race jostled Jack's shoulder and broke his concentrated stare. Jack nodded at Race then addressed Blink and Mush briefly. Just before he turned away, he looked again at David, and for a second David saw it in his eyes -- the truth, the aching truth. Then, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, Jack sauntered toward the edge of the practice lot and kept going.

Still, David's legs refused to move.

* * *

When Blink dropped to the cold tile floor from his loft and plunked himself at his desk chair below the next morning, there was a copy of the week's _Cougar News_ with a neon sticky note attached sitting on his closed laptop. "Denton called early -- couldn't get your ass to wake up. Meet him at 4, his office. 10 bucks says it's about this," read Race's cramped print. Blink yawned and stretched, then peeled the sticky note from the newspaper.

The paper was open and folded to the opinion page where a bold headline the sticky note had been covering screamed, GAY LOVE NEST: MARCHING BAND SCANDAL. The force of it hit Blink like a punch in the stomach. Even before he got to the subhead -- "Members 'come out' in droves" -- a combination of anxiety and anger crept across his chest. Not bothering to read the content of the article yet, Blink unfolded the paper and scanned the rest of the page. A box featuring the words, "Yeah, I kissed him," in a large font was centered between two of the right-hand columns. The quote was attributed to "Meyers '09."

Feeling slightly sick, Blink went back to the beginning. The events of the past three days were summarized in as many brief paragraphs like for a news article, but there was a definite slant mixed in. The part about Blink's forced intimacy with Mush's station wagon had been left out, for example, but Band President Jack Kelly's punching Oscar -- characterized as "an aggravated response" to Oscar's "open-hearted" invitation to a "positive Christian life" -- made it in.

The article went on to sketch the "effects" of these "revelations" on the "morale" of the band. Dana was quoted as saying she wasn't sure how the band could ever recover, while Denton had commented that he didn't see how the boys' personal lives were a concern of the marching band as a whole. Worst of all, the final paragraph not-so-subtly advocated that something be done to "curb the corruption" present in the band. Blink double-checked, but there was no byline listed, and according to the editor's note at the bottom of the last column, the persons involved could not be reached for comment before the paper was sent to press.

Mush and Race were already gone to their 8:00 and 9:00 a.m. classes (respectively), Blink knew, but the possibility that Dave was still in his room propelled him off his chair and into the hall. Only once he reached David's door -- paper still clutched in hand-- did he realize he was barefoot, only wearing plaid flannel pajama bottoms, and hadn't put on his patch. Though he darted a look up and down the corridor to make sure no one saw him, it didn't stop him from knocking. He got no response, so he picked up the dry-erase marker David had attached to a small white board with a rope constructed of duct tape and scribbled, "Denton's office. 4pm today -- RB."

Back in his room, Blink's alarm clock was wailing since he'd hit the snooze button but not switched it off. It was twenty to 10:00 now, and if he hurried he could shower before class -- he skipped breakfast without Mush on Thursdays anyway.

Minutes later, Blink was rinsing out shampoo when there was a timid tap at the door that led to Mush and Crutchy's room. "Blink?" Mush called. Blink wiped suds from his face then poked his head out of the shower curtain. A very dejected Mush stood near the sinks. "I just wanted to tell you I'm here. I'm not going to class the rest of the day."

"What happened, Mush? What did they say?" Blink ducked back into the shower stall and cranked off the water, then fumbled a blind hand out to grab his towel from its nearby hook.

"Nothing. It's just that stupid article means now everybody -- and I mean _everybody_ -- knows."

Dry as he'd get for the moment, Blink wrapped his towel around his waist and stepped out of the shower. A slight blush snuck over Mush's cheeks, but Blink didn't smile. "How do you know they know? They must have said something."

Mush shook his head and looked away. "Nothing we haven't already heard from the Delanceys. It's not a big deal." Blink motioned for Mush to follow him as he went back in his room and hunted for clean boxers in the dresser. Mush flopped on the futon. "Not everybody's mean about it. It's just -- no matter what they're thinking, they all stare and point. It's like being in the circus."

Having located an appropriate pair, Blink darted back into the bathroom to put them on and hang up his towel. "So you didn't know about the article before you left this morning?" he asked, yanking a t-shirt off a hanger from the built-in closet in the entryway.

"No. I didn't even see the stupid paper until Bumlets showed it to me halfway through class."

"Did you get a call from Denton?"

"Yeah, he left a message on our answering machine. And he sent us, David, and Jack an e-mail."

Blink hadn't thought to check his laptop earlier. Bottomless except for boxers, he came back into view of the room and leaned against the post of his loft. "Denton knows how to send e-mail?"

Mush laughed lightly.

Blink sunk onto the futon next to him. "Well, if you're skipping class, so will I."

Concern flickered across Mush's face. "No. You don't need to do that. I'm just being a wimp."

"Mikey," Blink waited for Mush to look at him, "I usually have to beg you to skip class with me. You think I'm going to pass this up?" He patted Mush on the cheek playfully. "Just lemme grab some pants and we'll go find something to do."

As he stood, Mush caught a finger in the elastic of Blink's boxers and snapped it. He wheeled around, good eye wide. "Oh, I don't know," Mush grinned. "Pants are overrated. And I can think of a few things to do right here."

Just after 4:00 p.m. that day, Blink (now wearing pants) sat in a chair that had probably been in Denton's office since the mid-1970s. Mush was in an equally-hideous chair next to him, David was across the room resting against the ancient heater's ledge, and Jack leaned a shoulder on the bookcase next to the door with his arms crossed.

Denton sat behind his desk, hands folded politely over the blaring headline of the _Cougar News_. Today his bowtie was striped in varying shades of blue and brown, which matched his shirt and sport coat. "Well, gentlemen, I presume we all understand why we're here." He patted the paper.

Nods rounded the room.

"We didn't do anything wrong," David blurted. Blink raised an eyebrow. Even he didn't feel that defensive, and all those days in the principal's office in high school were giving him wicked déjà vu at the moment.

Sympathy filled Denton's face. "I know, David." He looked at each of the other boys, "I've called you together because we have a season to finish, and I would like to have us all make it through together."

"Maybe you should have a chat with the Delanceys, then," Blink suggested. He'd meant it as kind of a joke, but of course Denton took him seriously.

"Well, I'd like to hear what you boys have to say at the moment. I feel as though I have a pretty good idea of what their side of the story is." He tapped the paper again.

"How could they do that? How is that even a story?" Mush shifted in his seat.

Denton spread his hands, palms up. "I don't know, Michael, but thankfully our paper is the only one printing anything so far. The city paper hasn't picked up the story."

"You think they might?" Jack asked.

"I have no idea. For your sakes I hope not. The _Cougar News_ is widely read enough."

"Hey, don't you work for them, Dave?" Blink thought he remembered David mentioning something about newspaper deadlines before.

"Yeah. They offered me an opinion column yesterday. And now I know why," he scoffed. "Anyway, when I was in there I saw Calvin -- the worship leader from the night I went to the CCC meeting, you remember Mush? – in the office yesterday. Maybe he had something to do with planting the article. But no one told me about it. What they did is hardly legal, especially since the article is unattributed. Even letters to the editor have to be signed for a paper to print them."

Mush shook his head. "I can't believe Calvin wrote the story."

"Who else would it be?" David sounded a bit too accusatory for Blink's taste.

"I don't know, I'm just saying it doesn't seem like something he would do." Mush cringed, "He's such a nice guy. He wouldn't write something so messed up on his own."

Blink's stomach churned. "I doubt it was his idea, Mush." He darted at look at Denton. He didn't seem to be friendly with Pastor Snyder, but insulting authority figures in the presence of others wasn't a keen idea. "You know how _persuasive_ some of the CCC people can be."

David perked up. "Hey, wait a minute. Why aren't they calling this 'the CCC Scandal'? We've all attended at one point or another, right?"

"That's Snyder, Dave." Jack spoke to the floor. "He probably wants to lead the crusade. I wouldn't plan on going to any more meetin's if I was you."

Denton cleared his throat. "So there is no doubt for you that this article, and perhaps some of the events leading up to it, are related back to the CCC and Pastor Snyder?"

Three voices said, "none," "nope," and "of course it's them," simultaneously. Mush just shook his head sadly.

"Well, boys, what course of action do you plan to take here?" Denton posed the question gently. "I told the paper that your personal lives are not the concern of the band, but I, at least, need to know how you plan to deal with this. Do you think it's necessary for there to be a campus safety presence at rehearsals? Should I -- or perhaps your parents? -- speak to Pastor Snyder directly?"

Blink swiped his palms on his jeans. Where had this kind of support been last year when he needed it? He glanced up and realized Jack's eyes were on him. "They can't do this to me, Jack," Blink said quietly, though he knew everyone heard him anyway. "Not again, and not to --"

"I know, Blink." Jack shuffled, re-crossing his arms and legs. Mush squeezed Blink's arm.

"Well, about the paper," David broke in. "They obviously amended or added the story at the last minute to include what happened yesterday after rehearsal, and not giving us the fair chance for comment is highly unethical. Above all, they have to respect our rights," David said firmly. "They can't treat us like we don't exist."

"Oh, I think they know you exist, Dave."

There was a pause as David and Jack looked fully at each other for the first time. David's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, 'know _you_ exist?'" His tone had a sharp edge.

"I was just makin' a point to those idiots." Jack shrugged. "You know, stepping in for a friend."

Wait a minute. Now Blink was really confused. Earlier in the day, he and Mush had decided that Jack's being gay certainly explained the mysterious break-up with Sarah, and they were impressed with the way he'd handled himself and the Delanceys last night. But now he was saying it wasn't true?

Maybe, Blink thought, I could accidentally kiss him, too, and he'd figure it out for sure. The joke cheered him a little, but Mush seemed to have read his mind, because he elbowed him hard.

The silence in the room was heavy. And if David's eyes really could shoot daggers, Blink was pretty sure Jack would be dead.

David tore his glare from Jack and turned back to Denton. "My point is we can start with the paper. If we can get them to print a fair story next week, that will go a long way for influencing public opinion and maybe end this altogether."

"Are you willing to work on that? Maybe have a talk with your editor?" Denton asked.

David nodded and Jack said, "'Course he is. Listen to him. He's a walking mouth."

Blink wasn't sure if Jack meant that as a compliment or if he was being sarcastic. But since David ignored it for the moment, so did he.

"What about the rest of you?" Denton wanted to know. "What do you think?"

Blink thought Denton should have a talk with Snyder and said so. Mush fidgeted, but didn't disagree. Jack didn't have an opinion on Snyder, but he did say, "Hey Denton, no parents."

"Sure," Denton said, suppressing a smile. "Okay, then. I will put together a meeting with Snyder. Since this seems to be a band-wide issue, I'll include Ms. Larkson and Dr. Weisel, as well. Do any of you have a problem with that?"

The boys shook their heads.

"I would also like to reserve the right to call in campus safety should it be necessary." He leaned over his desk more intently and made sure to catch Blink's eye. "I can't tell you how sorry I am about what happened last year, Ryan. No one informed me of the situation until you had already gone through a great deal and it was too late. Had I known about Jason Gurney's behavior . . ."

At the sound of his former tormentor's name, Blink's breath caught. He tried to shake away the memories. "Thanks," he croaked to Denton.

He'd heard before, from the music department rumor mill, that it was damn lucky for Gurney (his last name served as his nickname, too, since he was built like a football player and had a habit of picking fights) that he scraped enough credits and grades together at the end of that fall semester to graduate or he would have been kicked out. Lucky for Gurney, nothing. Blink probably owed his life to that kid's timely exit from the university.

"For the time being, gentlemen, I urge you not to stop showing up for rehearsal. You aren't without friends in this organization, and losing any of you -- since you all happen to be some of my best musicians -- would be devastating." He smiled for the first time. "And we're coming up on that big John Williams show. That's too exciting to miss!"

* * *

David was furious. This morning he'd discovered his editor had sacrificed him for a headline, then all day he'd been putting up with the fallout (both his suitemates were less-than pleased and classes had been hell), and now come to find out that Jack, Jack-fucking-Kelly, had lied.

Of course he'd lied. David had only known him for a few months and he already knew how manipulative Jack could be. That didn't stop David from being furious, though. In fact, it fed the fire.

The meeting ended with their assuring Denton they would all be at the dome in an hour for practice and Denton assuring them that he and the band leadership would be extra-vigilant that night.

The four boys paused outside the back door of the Fine Arts building. The October air had taken on a northwesterly cold bite, and the yellows and reds of fall colors were in full flame. Kind of like David's temper.

"I don't understand," Mush was saying. "Snyder and the paper -- they got plenty of followers. They didn't have to make us a headline."

David snorted. "They didn't even get your pull quote right. You said, 'Yeah, I kissed Blink,' not 'him.' Guess I shouldn't expect much from a damn tabloid." He was almost too wrapped up in his own indignation to notice the other boys exchange worried glances. Almost. "I'm just saying . . ." he trailed off defensively.

He still hadn't decided if he was going to continue writing for the _News_ or not. What they did seemed unforgivable, but part of the reason he'd come to a smaller school really was to get more involved with a paper and have a better shot at becoming an editor -- he needed that kind of experience if he wanted to land a job at a decent paper some day.

Mush continued, "It's not like we're the only gay kids on campus. Why would they attack us?"

"I don't know, Mush," Jack responded thoughtfully. "But maybe it's only gonna get tougher from now on. We just gotta -- "

"Oh, so it's back to 'we' now?" David's chest was almost bursting. He knew he was being irrational, he knew it wasn't really Jack he was mad at . . . right? "You sure you want to waste your time defending _us fags_?"

Blink, Mush, and Jack stared openly. David told himself he didn't care. He wanted an explanation. For two days and two nights he'd been waiting for Jack to say something -- anything -- to him. And then yesterday Jack had said . . . and the way Jack had looked at him just before he walked away . . .

David wasn't sure which lie hurt the most: Jack's words or that look.

But none of that was the point. The point was . . . the point was today. Today had been torture, and David's only hope had been that there were people with him this time, that he wouldn't have to fight this battle alone. Then Jack all but cut and run. Washed his hands of responsibility.

"Davey," Jack swept a quick glance at Blink and Mush, who had backed away just slightly, "that's not what I think and you know that."

David bristled. "How do I know that? You lied, Jack. You lied to me -- to us. So tell me whose side you're on, exactly."

"It's not about sides, Davey. It's about what's right. Snyder's wrong." Jack said evenly.

A good answer, but the wrong answer.

Although, David wasn't really sure what the right answer would be.

"Is that what this is to you? Some personal vendetta against that Snyder guy? This is my life, and Blink's and Mush's." He pointed to the two other boys. "You can't pretend to be something you're not just to get back at him. This is our fight."

Every muscle in Jack's body tensed, and he stood a little straighter as a result. "Your fight, huh? Is that why I was the one who scared off the Delanceys last night?"

David scowled. "You _caused_ that fight, Jack. You egged him on. I didn't need you." Jack's stature faltered a little, and David knew he'd hit a nerve. So he kept going. "I don't need you, Jack, and we don't need you. _We_ don't need you."

"Those are some tough words, Mouth." Jack's voice was lower and slower.

"Yeah, well, at least I'm telling the truth."

This time it was David who walked away.

He stormed back into the building and stomped down to the locker room. He yanked the lock open, grabbed his trumpet case and music then slammed the rickety locker door. None of it was making him feel better or reducing the levels of angry adrenaline pumping through him.

As he pounded down the stairs to the main lobby, Lexie stopped him on her way up. "Hey there, sweet cheeks. Where're you headed in such a hurry?" She left a hand on his forearm.

"Just let me go, Lexie."

She pouted. "Ohh, Davey --"

"Don't call me that." He hated that she'd picked up that habit from Jack. "Ever."

Lexie took her hand away with a slight sneer. "Well, I just wanted to tell you that you don't have to feel bad anymore. I understand now that the reason you didn't make out with me is because you're gay."

"That and you're kind of a tramp," David muttered. He whipped his head up and looked at Lexie fully. "Oh God, Lexie. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean that. I'm so sorry."

Lexie's expression was stony. She tucked her arms across her chest.

David tried again. "Look, it's been about the worst day ever. I'm really pissed about this newspaper thing, and then Jack --" he stopped because curiosity crept into Lexie's contact-lens-altered eyes (today they were orange). "Please, Lexie, please believe I didn't mean it, and that I am really sorry."

Lexie pursed her lips. "You know . . ." she shook her head. "I don't think I will."

As she stalked the rest of the way up the stairs, David slumped into the railing. If he hadn't just promised Denton he would be at rehearsal, there was no way he'd go. Now both Lexie and Jack wouldn't be speaking to him throughout the next three hours. Great. Excellent.

Damn.

He pushed away from the handrail and continued down the steps, all his former fury gone.

When David got back to his dorm room that night, his white board featured several unfriendly epigrams with sexually explicit content, and his door was plastered in pamphlets for homosexual "rehabilitation" centers and networks. He didn't even have the heart to tear them down. They'd just show up again, anyway.

Rehearsal had been as dreadful as predicted. If David was the drinking type, tonight would be the night to get obliterated. Tomorrow was Friday anyway, and he didn't have classes. He seriously considered it for a few minutes, but came to the conclusion that getting drunk alone would only make him feel more pathetic, not less.

Instead, he sought solace in the form of his laptop. He logged on to instant messenger and scanned his list for friends from home who might be able to commiserate, but the only person without an away message was Sarah. Before he could put up a self-pitying away message of his own, she IMmed him.

**fluteflirt92: **how you holding up little bro?

**newspapergeek19:** I've been better.

**fluteflirt92:** but you're ok?

The fact that Sarah was concerned -- and showing it -- relaxed David slightly. He owed it to her to be cooperative.

**newspapergeek19:** Yeah. I'm okay.

**fluteflirt92:** good.

**fluteflirt92:** so . . . when _are_ you going to tell mom and dad?

**newspapergeek19:** They probably know now. Mom reads the school paper online to check out my articles.

**newspapergeek19:** Actually, since they haven't called freaking out, she probably hasn't read it yet, which means she'll see it at work tomorrow and freak out there, which means all her coworkers will know, which means the whole city will know before lunch.

**fluteflirt92:** i think you're being a little over dramatic

**newspapergeek19:** Wait and see.

**fluteflirt92: **they won't freak out david. you're totally their favorite kid. you can't do anything wrong in their eyes.

David's first reaction was to balk at that, but he could tell Sarah was doing her best.

**newspapergeek19: **You really think they'll be okay with it? With me?

**fluteflirt92:** i really do

**fluteflirt92:** remember when you were 4 and you got a hold of that jar of peanut butter and smeared it all around the house? mom thought it was so funny she didn't even care and you know how OCD she can be. she took pictures of you and your handy work remember? _i_ was the one who had to clean it up

For the first time all day, David laughed.

**newspapergeek19: **You must not have done a very good job. I remember the house stunk for a while after that.

**fluteflirt92:** shut up

**newspapergeek19:** You shut up.

**fluteflirt92:** so you realize now we have to talk about all the cute boys we both know. i'm dying to know your type.

**newspapergeek19:** Okay, really shut up. We are absolutely _not_ required to talk about any such thing. And I don't have a "type."

**fluteflirt92:** ohhh come on david. i bet you do!

David's abdominal muscles clenched reflexively and he felt some renewed anger trickle through his veins.

"Yeah, sis, who knew we had the same taste in boys?" he drolled to the blinking box on screen.

He shook his head. It was pretty pointless now anyway.

**newspapergeek19:** Sorry, Sarah. I really don't want to talk about this right now . . . Did you hear that drum duet thing Spot and Race played during break tonight?

* * *

**End Note**: Seriously, could this be any more angsty? Jack and David are doing it to themselves, I swear. _I_ want them to just jump each other, but they insist on drama drama drama. Although, Javid arguments charged with sexual tension are still kind of hot. . . . Anyway, I hope I've provided enough Blushy goodness as counterpoint to the ample Javid angst. The boys and I will be back in a few weeks!


	9. Friends and Enemies

**Disclaimer: **Newsies are Disney's. Story contains slash. It also contains political and religious rhetoric, none of which reflects the views of Disney or FFnet or me, for that matter.

**A/N: ** Oh it's good to be back! I thank you all for your patience these past few weeks; now that I'm happily settled updates should be a bit quicker and more regular again. You know, when I started this whole shebang, I was **sure** this story would be complete in eight chapters. And here I am, just over half way through my outline. Good things just keep happening along the way, and I'm rolling with them. As always, a round of applause is due for my beta clio21000 and the readers and reviewers who stuck with me throughout my absence.

* * *

**Chapter 9 – Friends and Enemies**

"Day games suck."

Mush poked a finger into Blink's side from where he lay, arm's length away, on the dome's turf. "Think of it this way: we'll be done earlier. The game will be over by the time we usually have to start getting ready."

Blink lifted his elbow off his eyes to peer at his best-friend-turned-almost-maybe-kind-of-boyfriend. "Mush, it's not even eight in the morning on a Saturday and I know you haven't slept in like two days. There is no reason to be so . . . upbeat."

"It's delirium," Racetrack suggested from Blink's other side, his eyes closed and drumsticks in hand across his chest. "Sleep deprivation has eroded his more logical thought processes."

"Thank you, professor." Mush mock saluted the air.

Blink rolled his head fully toward Racetrack. The fact that his semi-insomniac roommate was feeling the lack of sleep, too, kicked up his conscience. "I'm sorry you're stuck in the middle of this mess, Race," he said.

Race screwed up his face, eyes still shut. "Great, now you're delirious."

Blink inched up onto his elbows. "No, I'm serious."

Mush chuckled. "That rhymes!" Blink reached over and flicked him in the shoulder. "Ow. Hey."

"Really, Race. Those assholes are making the noise to keep Mikey and me awake, and I'm sorry you can't sleep, either."

Since Thursday night there had been hourly wake-up call raids outside the doors of their suite. Thursday was the worst because "Thirsty Thursday" was the night everyone on their floor usually got drunk anyway, so there had been lots of pounding on the door and shouts about making sure no one in there was "packing any fudge" etc. Then last night there had been a series of alarm clocks snuck out in the hall and set to pop music stations turned up full blast, in addition to the occasional round of loud knocking. Considering some, if not most, of the people behind the pranks were in band, Blink was surprised he didn't see more overly-tired band members this morning, but he supposed they took shifts.

Race shrugged against the turf. "No big deal. I got nowhere else to try an' sleep."

"You could stay with me," said a female voice from above and behind them.

Racetrack didn't bother to open his eyes. "No thanks, Lexie. Been there, done that already this semester, thanks."

"Funny, smartass. I was actually trying to be nice." Lexie posted fists on her hips and toed at Race's hat until he swatted his drumsticks at her ankle and sat up.

"Whaat? Jeez."

"Have you talked to your crabby friend David lately?" Lexie asked lightly. From upside down, Blink read the phrase "drama queen" scripted in sequins on her shirt. He bit his lip to prevent smiling at the truth of the statement.

"I dunno. Not since yesterday, maybe. Why are you botherin' me about him, woman?"

Blink was glad not to be on sleep-deprived Racetrack's bad side.

"Well, I thought he might have told you about our," Lexie frowned a little, "_exchange_ on Thursday."

"What, exactly, didya _exchange_ with him? Somethin' tells me not phone numbers. You're not his type, ya know." Race broke into a grin, lazily spinning a drumstick over his thumb.

Lexie stuck out her tongue before answering. "Yeah, well, apparently even if he was normal and liked girls, I wouldn't be his type anyway because he called me a tramp."

Race burst out laughing while Blink shared an exasperated eye roll with Mush, as much over Lexie's snide comment as her shock at David's statement.

Lexie shifted her stance and crossed her arms. "Let me know when you're finished."

Race slapped his thigh and reeled to the side some, still laughing, though Blink thought maybe he was playing it up just to irk her more. Or maybe he was just so tired it really was that funny. Race's guffaw trailed off and he swiped the back of his hand under his eyes, one at a time. "Whew. That David Jacobs sure can call 'em, eh boys?"

"Yeah, joking aside, Anthony, what do you plan to do about it?"

The smile promptly fell off Race's face. "Do about it? What am I supposed to do about it?"

"Defend me!" Lexie flung her arms in the air. "Tell him off. Something. I mean, I was your girlfriend, and for some reason you seem to be friends with people like him. . ."

Race put up a hand. "Woah. I'm stoppin' you right there. Contrary to your belief, which ain't exactly the popular one, the world does not revolve around you, Lexie. If Dave called you a tramp, I'm sure he's already apologized. He wouldn't come cryin' to me about it, and I don't know why you are, either. You got no sympathy from me. I'm more likely to agree with Dave on this one."

Blink watched Mush's eyes widen. That was dangerous territory, even for Race to enter. Especially since he didn't seem to be joking anymore.

And Lexie was fully aware of that. "Oh. I see. That's what I am to you. Just an occasional easy lay."

Racetrack narrowed his eyes. "Well, you don't make it easy on a guy, but you do it so much --"

Before he could finish, Lexie slapped him. Open palm, right across the cheek.

"You will really, really regret this, Anthony Higgins." She turned around then spat, "Count on it," and stormed back to the trumpet row where David and Jack were already at their coordinates, pointedly ignoring one another.

"You okay?" Mush ventured to ask after she was a good way off.

Race pressed his wrist to his cheek. "Yeah. Fine."

Blink had to let the stunned feeling dissolve before he could speak again. "Damn. Now I'm really sorry, Race."

"Will ya knock it off with the apologies?" Race gave his cheek one last rub. "You're startin' to sound like Dutchy."

"Okay, but still, thanks," Blink half-mumbled. Mush nodded, seconding that.

"Whatever guys. No big deal. I'd had it with her this last time for good anyway."

Unintentionally, the three boys glanced over at the trumpet row. Lexie was engaged in an animated but whispered discussion with a clarinet, probably already repeating what had just happened. Blink thought that if she didn't want people to think she was a tramp, she probably shouldn't keep telling people David had called her one. A solitary David was hunched over his music folder, tapping out fingerings on his trumpet while Jack lay on his side, head propped on his bent elbow.

"They're a happy bunch," Mush remarked, and somehow Blink knew he wasn't truly including Lexie in that observation.

He shook his head. "I don't really get why Dave's mad at Jack. We should have figured he was just doing it for a stunt to get the Delanceys off our backs. That's just how Jack is."

Mush shrugged and looked at the turf. "I dunno. I think there's more to it than that."

"You think he's really gay?" Even though it had made sense that first day, Blink was having trouble remembering why or how. Of course, Jack hadn't been denying the new slew of rumors about his sexuality, but he wasn't confirming them either. And he just seemed straight.

Well, then again, so had David. And Mush.

For actually _being_ homosexual, Blink decided, he had terrible gaydar.

Mush shrugged. "I'm not sure. He says he's not, so I'll believe him, I guess. I just mean I see where Dave could be coming from."

Blink squinted, still not sure he understood David's perspective as well as Mush seemed to, but he realized Racetrack was being uncharacteristically quiet. And, now that Blink thought about it, he hadn't said anything yet about his best friend possibly being gay at all. "What do you think, Race? You've known him longest."

"What do I think about what?" Race hedged. "Oh, you mean Jack?" Blink and Mush both nodded. "He never said anythin' about it before. Never had a reason to think he was." He shrugged. "Always had a swarm of girls after him."

Mush blushed. "Well, that doesn't mean anything."

A smile blossomed across Racetrack's face. "Yeah, but Jack actually slept with some of 'em." He stood and clocked Mush gently at the ear as he drifted to where his snare drum sat in his block formation spot. Just then, Sarah blew the whistle for the start of rehearsal.

* * *

David always hated the required warm-up jumping jacks, but the thing he hated (at the moment) even more than doing said juvenile exercises was having to watch Jack do them right in front of him. And of course Skittery, in his warm-up-exercise-leading wisdom -- a duty Sarah had delegated him weeks ago in favor of taking roll -- had decided to make them do a full forty this morning.

For weeks (okay, over a month -- since the night of initiation, really) David had been effectively ignoring his attraction to Jack. He ignored it because he knew Jack was straight: the fact that Jack had dated David's sister was evidence enough -- Sarah was as girly as girls could get. And Jack was so easy and natural with everyone that every time David had been tempted to think one of his many looks was implying something deeper than simple curiosity, he'd been able to shove the thought aside.

Then Jack had to go and screw things up by giving him hope. For almost one whole day, David believed there was a chance. For one day he believed he'd finally understood one of Jack's looks, that Jack had silently told him it was okay, that he felt something, too.

He knew now that it was just a big, fat Jack-Kelly-sized lie, of course. But that one day of hope had broken open the flood gates of suppressed crushing. Now David was almost drowning in it _and_ being forced to watch Jack do jumping jacks.

"Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight. Thirty-NINE." Band members shouted around him. "FORTY!" David clapped his legs together and hands to his sides and stood as still as possible. Anyone caught reaching up for the next move had to do ten more jumping jacks on his or her own.

There was a moment of antsy quiet as everyone's eyes darted between rows and columns, but no one had slipped up this morning, so Skittery ordered everyone into position for lunges. David flinched and forced his gaze up toward the bleachers to avoid the rear view of Jack in his half-snapped track pants.

While David wasn't forced to be in physical proximity to Jack, he did his best not to think about him. But the more he tried not to, the more often he remembered Jack's loose-lipped smile, long fingers, and self-conscious, cheesy jokes. David thought about the faraway stare Jack fell into whenever he mentioned his childhood or father, and he noticed that his own natural cynicism was more biting without Jack's incessant positivity to counter it. Already he missed hearing Jack call him Davey.

As he crouched lower and forward into a lunge, David shook off the train of thought, mentally scolding himself. _I was just making a point_, Jack had said. Well, point taken. All those looks had probably been because Jack suspected he and Sarah were related, or that David was interested in him in a slightly different way than the typical male friend. He just had to get over it.

David wasn't at all surprised that Lexie was still frosty toward him; she turned up her nose and cocked her shoulder away from him throughout rehearsal -- a significant change from the days when she used to smile and wink. However, David wasn't quite sure who was giving whom the silent treatment anymore when it came to Jack. He'd been the one to stomp off angry, but Jack hadn't made an effort to extend any sort of peace offering. And, frankly, even though some of the edge had worn off the betrayal, David was pretty sure (based on previous acknowledged-crush experience) he would be less than eloquent if he had to talk to Jack now.

As a consequence, he spent his third consecutive practice in complete silence, obeying Denton's commands as filtered through Sarah and trying not to draw attention to himself.

On the upside, the phone call with his parents he'd been dreading Thursday night went just as well as Sarah had predicted. On Friday he'd talked to his mom first, and she cried a little, but it seemed the tears were because Esther was again realizing her little boy was growing up, rather than because he would never marry a nice girl and carry on the family name. She still had Les for that anyway.

Mayer had been calm and reassuring -- and ready to step up for the cause. "You're a grown man, David. You know how to choose your battles. This is one with the paper, and this organization, together you can win this one."

David suspected his dad had already started scouting gay rights organizations to affiliate with, but he was glad to have his parents' support. It even made him feel a bit guilty for not telling them about what had happened at his former university last year . . . but they didn't need to know everything all at once, if at all.

He was still furious with the paper and Kristy, the editor, but the fact that the administration had put out a statement via e-mail suspending the _Cougar News_ from operation until an investigation behind the anonymous contribution to the Opinion page could be completed gave him some vindication. He'd even been asked to attend the meeting on Monday about it.

By the end of the three-hour rehearsal, David was exhausted and starving. He considered accepting Blink's invitation out for brunch at the local greasy spoon, Tommy's, until Racetrack and Jack sauntered over from closing up the equipment truck.

"Thanks, Blink, but I think I'll pass. I might go try and sleep for an hour." He shifted his trumpet case to his left hand and scratched his neck, a little nervously, with his right. He stared at the turf, very aware Jack was actually looking at him. Again. For the first time in days.

A few beats of silence went by. Then Jack spoke. "You can come, Dave. It's fine by me. It's not like we're not friends anymore." He glanced down, then back at David. "Right?"

David's head flew up as his internal organs did that weird flip-flop-leap thing. He clenched every muscle in his body to hold himself steady. "Right. Yeah. Of course. Right. And, I mean, thanks." He scratched his neck again. "But this time I -- I think I'm just going to go back to my room, um, this time. I'll see you guys before the game." Faster than he knew was natural and cool, David took off across the stretch of green turf.

As soon as he rounded the field exit, he pressed his back against the wall and thunked his head against it one, two, three times, hoping to knock some sense into himself.

* * *

Once the rows of smartly-uniformed band members were within the walls of the dome, the drum line played a halt, the cadence reverberating throughout the arched building. Blink stayed at an alert attention until Denton's gave a polite, "At ease," through the megaphone. Now all they had to do was wait until it was time to line up for pre-game.

One hand cradled protectively around the body of his sax, Blink made his way through the milling band members toward Mush. When he reached him, Mush's face was stern and he pointed over Blink's shoulder, into this blind spot. Blink turned, his confusion clearing instantly when he saw Pastor Snyder.

Die-hard members of the CCC -- the Delanceys, Dana, and a half-dozen others -- gathered at Snyder's sides, forming a bulky horseshoe.

"What is he doing here?" Blink hissed.

Mush wagged his head, "I don't know. I really don't. But there's only a few minutes before we line up, it can't get that bad, can . . ."

He trailed off as Jack shoulder his way into the clearing just in front of the collected CCCers. Blink swore the corners of Snyder's mouth trembled upward as his eyes fastened on Jack.

Jack slipped his chin strap up and removed his helmet. "What are you doing here, Snyder?"

From the other side of the developing scene, David filed to the edge of the jagged circle. Snyder's gaze flicked over him before returning to Jack, then he smiled serenely -- well, what Blink figured was supposed to look serene, anyway. It looked more like an oil slick.

"Mr. Kelly, correct? I am simply here, at the request of your friends," he gestured to the students at his sides, "to lead those who choose to follow the path of the Lord in prayer. Surely you have no objections?"

"That depends." Jack tossed his head slightly to get his longish hair out of his eyes.

"Depends upon what, Mr. Kelly?" Snyder's face was a mask. "Sharing the grace of God is not dependent upon anything."

Jack's stare was stony and he lifted his chin in defiance, but said nothing.

A voice came from Blink's left. "You think it is."

All heads snapped from Jack to the other side of the gathered crowd, to David. Snyder's brow bent in surprise. He spoke a little louder, as if calling over a nonexistent din. "I'm afraid I don't understand you, Mr. Jacobs."

David, his helmet and trumpet already elsewhere, crossed his arms. "You think the grace of God depends on a lot of things, like who someone is attracted to, for example. It was in your article. If you believe God's grace is shared equally and without reservation, why would anyone need an 'invitation' to a 'positive Christian life?'"

Mush nudged an elbow into Blink ribs and gestured at Jack. Blink chanced a look. Jack's trumpet and helmet dangled at his sides, but a grin was spreading over his face, and he was looking directly at David.

Snyder twitched. "_My_ article? That is a bold accusation, young man. Questioning a reverend is second to questioning the word of the Lord --"

"So you believe you're second only to_ God_, Pastor Snyder?" David glared.

Snyder cleared his throat. "Boys, I came here to lead the faithful in a prayer over tonight's performance and their continued spiritual well-being in general. I will gladly add you both to my list of intentions." He looked to his left and right, held the hand not clutching his Bible out in welcome and said, in a voice fit for an un-miked pulpit rather than an impromptu gathering, "Dear friends, let us bow our heads in prayer."

Nervous glances darted around before the CCC members and some others in the group closed their eyes and ducked their heads. But Jack, David, Blink, and Mush were not alone is keeping their heads up. In the sea of helmets and feathers, Blink easily picked out Lou and Race and Bumlets, and further back he thought he saw Spot among others.

"Merciful Lord," Snyder began and closed his eyes. "Tonight we simply ask that you watch over these talented students as they perform. Their hard work and musical skill is performed in your name, Lord, and we ask that you bless them and continue to shine your light upon them."

Snyder paused, and for a second Blink was thrilled to think he was actually finished, but no such luck. "And I ask a special favor, Lord, I ask that you forgive young David and Jack for their impertinence in questioning your almighty way--"

"Forgive us?" Jack took a step closer to Snyder, who was again meeting Jack's stare. "How about asking forgiveness for yourself, Snyder? Or for your precious Delanceys, huh? I think you three--"

Still concentrating his gaze on Jack, Snyder spoke over him. "These misled boys have not yet given their lives to you, Lord, and we pray that they will one day see the corruption in their lives as the work of the devil and will choose to be saved by your everlasting grace."

"Homosexuality's the work of the devil, is it Snyder?" Jack taunted.

Nearly everyone's heads were up now, Blink noted. David appeared to be cautiously making his way closer to Jack, or at least that side of the gathering.

Snyder's eyes were narrow slits as he held his Bible out from his chest like a shield. Even the CCC members around him had moved back by a few inches. "Help them to see their sin, Lord. Help them to shake off the bonds of sin and darkness of corruption--"

Blink was so tense he thought he might throw up -- or maybe it was just the corruption of his homosexual soul upsetting his stomach.

Jack's knuckles were white where he clutched his helmet and trumpet. His jaw was tight even as he spoke. "Whatever happened to 'love the sinner, hate the sin,' Snyder? You remember that one don't you?" Whether intentional or not, Jack's voice boomed louder. "Remember how you're suppose to love everyone? Remember that 'unconditional love' thing?"

Snyder said nothing, his face red and Bible still before him.

David arrived at Jack's side just as Denton broke through the stunned ranks of students. David placed a hand on Jack's shoulder. "C'mon. It's over," Blink heard him say quietly.

When he tore his eyes from Jack and saw Denton, Snyder's Bible arm fell to his side. It was a few seconds before he recovered his mock serenity, but the mask was back on by the time a deeply-frowning Denton strode toward him.

Blink checked Mush's expression -- he seemed slightly shaken but okay -- then he swept a look around the corridor. Small knots of passing non-band spectators had grouped here and there, but they were beginning to break apart now that the action was ended. A few of them were definitely just regular residents of the city here for the game, and some looked like parents of students. After the meeting in Denton's office, Blink had sense enough to know that could mean trouble, but he hoped against it.

Skittery's voice boomed out, "Band, ten-hut!" and immediately the crowd of several dozen buzzing band members snapped their attention toward him. Sarah was at his side. "Time to line up. And hustle," she said through the megaphone, keeping her voice low.

Mush reached down and slipped his hand into Blink's, squeezed it once then let go. "Let's get going." As they rounded the corridor's corner, David and Jack stood to one side. Jack was readjusting his helmet while David held his trumpet.

After all the abuse Jason Gurney had justified using lines fed to him by Snyder, Blink was more than a little glad to see the fanatical preacher put in his place. "That was great, Jack. Pretty damn brave to go after him like that. I never had that chance last year, but I doubt I could have done it. I thought you were going to start quoting scripture in a second." His enthusiasm was carrying him away, Blink realized. He shut himself up.

Jack shrugged, taking his instrument back from David. "Dave's the one who really started it." David looked sheepish as Sarah passed by, waving them impatiently toward the sideline. The four of them started walking. "I mean it, Davey. You're one smart mouth. I didn't know what to say back to him. You gave me the idea, and then he just pissed me off enough."

Blink couldn't be sure because of the sharp shadows the banks of spotlights created, but he thought David might have been blushing under the brim of his helmet.

* * *

By some miracle, the football team actually won the game, which meant the drum line was allowed to celebrate with cadences on the march back to the Fine Arts building instead of Racetrack simply playing mournful taps to keep tempo. David marched easily, though he couldn't help being conscious of Jack's presence at his side. He listened as one cadence ended with a splash of cymbals and an elaborate quad solo filled the early evening air. Obviously the soloist was Spot. Adlibbing melodies on the buffet of tenor drums before him, Spot kept the beat established by Race's taps but filled them in with complicated rhythms.

The Cougars' win had nothing to do with the relief and excitement David was feeling. He did wish he'd been able string more words into clear sentences while joking with Jack in the stands, but Jack hadn't seemed to notice he was nodding and smiling more than usual.

Watching Jack stand up to Snyder had crumbled the remaining anger David had been harboring. It was reassuring to see Jack take on the cause without falling back on an excuse, but the ultimate question still pounded through David like the finale of Spot's drum solo: was Jack really straight? Snyder suggested otherwise during their show down, though he only knew what the Delanceys had told him. Jack hadn't given away a thing.

But during the second quarter of the game, David had cheered as the team made a touchdown and turned to look at Jack before raising his trumpet in preparation for playing the fight song, and for a few short seconds the smile on Jack's lips wasn't reflected in his eyes. Something else was. Something a lot like what David thought he'd seen the night Jack punched Oscar.

Sooner than he expected, David found that the band had arrived at the large maple tree near the Fine Arts building where an accompanying sign bore the university's name and crest. Tradition held that after every game the band split ranks down the center and marched in opposite directions around the tree and sign until a halt was played. At that point, everyone tossed an arm over his or her neighbors' shoulders and together sang the school's alma mater a cappella. At first, David had found this tradition tantamount to singing Kumbaya around a campfire and rolled his eyes a lot, but by this point in the season he didn't mind it. And it helped that literally everyone participated, including Spot.

From the corner of his eye, David glanced over at Jack as their row approached the tree. To his surprise, Jack looked over and smiled fully just before their respective columns split in separate directions. The percussion was back in full cadence and, since they were the only section playing, band members half marched and half danced their way around the circles, grooving to the cadence beat. As friends passed each other, some slapped fives or blew kisses. Each time Jack passed David, their eyes made contact, and Jack's smile hung wide on his face.

Sarah's whistle sounded and the concentric circles of marchers kicked up the crunchy fire-colored maple leaves once more around the tree as Racetrack led the percussion in a halt. Denton gave the "at ease" and immediately shoulders slumped and pieces of uniform were unceremoniously wrenched off or open -- jacket collars unclasped, gloves removed, drums and tubas rested on the grass. David yanked off his helmet and swiped his sleeve over his sweaty forehead.

Skittery edged forward and hummed a tuning note, which the band mimicked. David felt the cymbal girl, Anna, on his right sneak her hand through the crook of his elbow and he smiled at her, then scanned the circle. Even today, despite the rift the events of the week had caused, everyone was linking arms. David looked to his left for Scott, the second-chair trumpet who marched behind him, so they could close the gap between them. But as he extended his arm, Jack ducked in below it, singing the first bars of the song, and draped his own arm around David's uniformed shoulder.

David's chest swelled and his grin prevented him from singing. The band began to sway with the tune, and David could feel the vibration of Jack's voice at his ribs where their bodies touched, pressed together by the momentum of the crowd. When at last David found his voice and joined the song, Jack shifted his arm and brushed his fingers up the nape of David's neck, ruffling his matted curls.


	10. Proof

**Disclaimer: **Newsies are Disney's. Story contains slash. It also contains political and religious rhetoric, none of which reflects the views of Disney or FFnet or me, for that matter.**  
**

**A/N: **Sometimes it feels like this story dictates its own direction and I'm just playing a catch-up game of connect the dots. Connecting those dots for this chapter was particularly demanding, but hopefully the result is worth it. Big thanks to you readers and reviewers and to clio21000 for kindly reading this one twice.

* * *

**Chapter 10 -- Proof  
**

Blink slid his palm slowly down Mush's bare abdomen until he grazed his waistband, then smoothed his fingers around Mush's side, hand coming to rest on the sharp edge of his pelvic bone. Just weeks ago, Blink literally only dreamed of doing that. Now, as Mush nipped at his earlobe, Blink happily noted, once again, he really could do that and so much more.

He went for more.

Mush lay on his back in Blink's loft, right hand tucked under his head, which put his chest and abdomen in sharp relief even in the dorm room's dim light. Blink engaged him in a kiss while he shifted from along Mush's side to a straddling position on top of him, which increased the intensity of their kissing -- and a few other things, too.

Both Mush's hands sought Blink's hips and guided him up and down. Blink took up the momentum, bearing down against Mush, feeling the warm tendrils of want wrap him into that moment, that boy between his thighs.

Mush moved his hands to Blink's lower back, pressing him closer. Soon they broke off the kiss, the heat of their friction forcing them to instead breathe deeply and let out an occasional gasp or moan, their faces cheek to cheek.

Blink's blood was on fire, he was sure. He was also sure of what he wanted to do next, but he wasn't sure if Mush was ready for it. Cautiously, he brushed a hand along Mush's breastbone, then between their bodies. With his knees, he lifted himself up just enough to sneak his hand under Mush's boxers. Mush inhaled sharply and Blink froze.

"You okay, Mikey?" he panted against the other boy's ear. He felt Mush nod, so he settled his weight slightly to one side, gently wrapped his fingers around what he'd been after, and gave an experimental stroke.

"Ohgodyes," Mush exhaled, his body arching.

Blink smiled. And kept going.

Later -- not hours later, but not just a few minutes, either -- Blink again lay next to Mush, one shoulder against the cool cinder block, the other against firm warmth. Mush's pants and boxers (the boxers a little worse for the wear) were now on the floor, as was Blink's t-shirt.

"What time does Race get back?" Mush asked. His voice was relaxed, almost sleepy, and a corner of the sheet covered his midsection. A glowy feeling spread through Blink's chest. Somehow, he'd gotten exactly what he'd wanted.

"They usually play until midnight or so, I think. Too bad he's got an early class on Mondays, otherwise I'd call him and tell him not to come home."

Mush chuckled at Blink's insinuation. "Dave's playing with them tonight, right?"

"Yeah. I can't imagine he's got a very good poker face, though. I'm surprised he went, considering it's a 'school night.' And I think he has a thing about the paper tomorrow."

"Of course he went. Jack invited him." Mush's eyes were closed and his hands rested loosely across his chest.

Blink furrowed his brow. "Wait, you think Dave's got a thing for Jack?"

"It's just a guess."

"Huh." It kind of made sense, but if it were true, Blink felt for David. Jack seemed to attract (or maybe create) as much drama as Lexie.

Mush tipped his head toward Blink and pried open an eye. "So, this is kind of funny, isn't it?"

"What?" Blink turned as well, settling his head further back on the pillow so his eye could better focus.

"Just that it's the first night without any alarms or pounding and the first thing we do is end up in bed together." A smile curved his lips. "I mean, it's mostly 'cause Race is gone, but, I don't know. It's funny. Like we won or something."

Blink grinned. "Well, _you_ won."

Color rose into Mush's cheeks and he pouted a little. "Hey! It's not like I . . . I said I would --"

"Mikey. I'm kidding. It's all right." Blink reached over for one of Mush's hands. "Really. I'm just kidding." He threaded his fingers through his own. "But I am glad you, ah, won."

"Couldn't have done it without you." Mush's smile made Blink want to help him win all over again. "Well, I guess I could have, but that wouldn't have been as much fun for you."

"You've got a dirty mind."

Mush leaned up on his side, and Blink braced himself. "Ha. I know for a fact yours is worse."

A scuffle of wrestling followed. Blink tried to force his way up while Mush pinned him in place, their hands intertwined and elbows stiffening for leverage. He put up a decent fight considering Mush really was stronger than him, but eventually knew he was wearing out and -- to prevent being declared the loser -- bent his elbows to the bed, effectively dropping Mush on top of him and positioning the other boy's lips within range of his own. They kissed.

After a minute, Mush retreated and rolled his lips inward in thought. "Is this what it was like for you last year? I mean, I know Gurney was bad, but it seems like a bigger problem this year."

Blink considered. "It's not as bad as Gurney. The Delanceys are assholes, but I don't think they'd do any worse than he did. And, yeah, there's more people in on it because of that stupid article, and maybe what they're saying is worse, but in some ways its better this year." He paused to make sure he had Mush's eye contact. "I'm glad not to be alone."

Mush nodded in agreement before resting a cheek against Blink's chest. "Me too."

* * *

David was surprised to see Denton seated in the university center conference room. His band director looked up from the papers in front of him and gave a small smile. Considering his other option was to seat himself next to Kristy, a few men in suits he didn't recognize, or the percussion instructor Dr. Weisel, David chose an empty spot next to Denton.

"Hello David. I was hoping they followed my advice and asked you to be here," Denton whispered and bobbed his head in the direction of the men in suits.

David was puzzled. "You set up this meeting? I thought . . ."

Denton shuffled what looked like drill charts into a more organized pile as Snyder entered the room and found a seat at the narrow end of the rectangle of tables. "I was trying to arrange a meeting with the music faculty and Pastor Snyder as we agreed," Denton's voice was even lower now, "but he wouldn't consent to meet before Saturday -- I think we found out why -- and of course Sunday was off limits. He hemmed and hawed about today, saying he had other business on campus. Turned out the big wigs were already requiring him to be here as the sponsor for the CCC, so I contacted the dean and invited myself, Dr. Weisel, Ms. Larkson and told them about you."

"Oh. Well, thanks." David pulled a notebook and pencil from his backpack.

A man with a broad face and white hair who wore a black suit that reminded David of funerals stood to address the group. Before he did, Denton whispered quickly, "You have a right to be here, representing yourself and your friends."

The broad-faced man cleared his throat. "Is this everyone?"

"Almost, Dean Seitz," Denton said. "We're still missing -- ah, there she is." He gestured to the door with his pen and David looked over in time to see a swirl of lavender and carnation pink crowned with light orange curls.

"Sorry!" Medda cooed, gathering the flowing folds of her skirt and shawl into a chair across from David, next to Dr. Weisel. "I hope I'm not late, gentleman," she peeked around Dean Seitz, "and lady." Medda wiggled her fingers in a wave, but Kristy barely managed to turn up the corners of her mouth. For the first time, David felt a twinge of sympathy for her. "Please continue."

"Yes, well. I think we are all generally acquainted, but let me do a few brief introductions." Seitz indicated each person, stating their name and position.

One of the men David had not recognized was a member of the university's board of trustees and attending on behalf of the university president, who was out of town. In a prim tone, he assured them he would be making "a full report," but David could tell by looking around that the man's intended threat had very little effect on those assembled. The other man David couldn't place turned out to be the faculty advisor for the newspaper. David knew of him but, like most professors at the school, he was overworked and preoccupied with his own research, so he didn't make it to the newsroom very often.

When Seitz arrived at David, he was momentarily at a loss. "And this must be . . ." he glanced down at a paper in front of him, "David Jacobs. Is that correct, young man?"

David nodded, feeling confident. "Yes. I write for the _Cougar News_, and I was named in the article." As soon as Seitz nodded his recognition, David darted his attention to Pastor Snyder, who seemed to have a storm cloud gathering over his plastered pleasant façade. David allowed himself a smile. This was going to be a very long meeting, but he had a feeling it would be a productive one, too.

Once the introductions were finished, Seitz took his seat again and got to down to business. "I would like to remind everyone that this meeting is part of an investigation but it is not the final hearing. Information shared here will be considered by the board of directors in a few days and we will make a final decision then. Understood?" General signs of agreement were given. "Good. Now, Ms. Eliot, may I begin with you?"

Kristy gave a stiff nod. Her whole future depended on how things worked out, David knew. He wondered again why she'd risked everything on a stupid article that hadn't even been that good.

"Ms. Eliot and I have already discussed her involvement in this matter at length, but for the benefit of this group I will ask her to restate her testimony. Ms. Eliot, please outline for us what happened last week, to the best of your knowledge."

Kristy held herself steady, her hands knotted on the tabletop, knuckles white. "First of all, I would like to state that I did not write that article." She turned her gaze to David, and her voice sped up a little. "I _did_ write an opinion piece about harassment. I heard about in the band, and I really should have conferred with more sources first, but what I wrote spoke out _against_ it."

Guilt flooded David as her eyes searched his for an ounce of forgiveness. He hadn't even tried to ask her what had happened -- he just assumed she'd okayed it. David mentally scolded himself for thinking Kristy would be so reckless. He gave her a weak smile as Seitz cleared his throat, and Kristy got back to the point, but she seemed less on edge.

"Late Wednesday night, the paper was ready to go to press -- all articles were in, the layout was complete -- except for a few minor adjustments." Her voice dropped lower, like she was admitting some culpability. "I was extremely tired, though -- I mean, more tired than usual for a layout night, because I was getting over the flu. Anyway, I left early, before we'd finalized the disk to go to the printer's. I had assurance from the three staffers I left behind that they would make sure it got there, and since they had been trustworthy in the past I thought that would be fine."

"So you think it was one of these staffers that planted or tampered with the article?" the man from the board of trustees asked quietly.

Kristy glanced at her advisor quickly then said, "Yes."

David tensed. Three people. Who would they be? The sports editor, probably. Maybe the features editor? But Kristy said staffers, not just editors. Was there a writer there, too? The memory of seeing Calvin in the office that day floated to mind. Had he looked guilty? Was he planning something even then, before Jack's showdown with the Delanceys? David scribbled his train of thought into his notebook.

"Among those present that night, Ms. Eliot, do you have suspicions as to who might be motivated to publish an article such as the one that appeared?" The trustee man's prissy voice dripped with condescension.

David stopped writing to watch Kristy. She swallowed and combed her fingers through her long pony tail. "I have been informed that I am not required to speculate on that, sir."

Shock in the form of laughter caught in David's throat and he gulped it into a cough. Denton sent him a knowing sideways glance. Seriously? Kristy was seriously going to take a stand for her staff? That meant one of two things: either she was actually willing to gamble with her future over bad reporting, or she knew exactly who it was and had a good reason to protect them.

David circled the second option gruffly with his pencil and, without really thinking about it, drew a line connecting that thought to the name "Snyder" he'd sketched in an angry font in the upper margin of the page.

As Seitz expounded on the validity Kristy's refusal to answer for the trustee, Denton tapped David's elbow gently. He raised an eyebrow and gestured to David's notebook. David felt himself flush a little, but he silently cocked the page toward his band director. Denton only glanced at it briefly before meeting David's eye again and clearing his throat emphatically enough to interrupt Seitz.

"Excuse me, Dean Seitz, but I have another question for Ms. Eliot, if you don't mind."

Seitz leaned away from the table and held out his hand to prompt Denton. "By all means."

Denton smiled warmly. "Kristy -- May I call you Kristy?"

Clearly surprised, Kristy darted a look at David before assenting.

"Kristy, in your experience as a journalist -- this is your second year in charge of the paper, correct? I read it weekly, you do very good work -- have you ever heard of or encountered something like this happening before?"

Bewildered, Kristy shook her head. "No."

"Have you seen or printed opinions like the ones expressed in last week's article expressed before?"

"Well, sure. But --" Some sort of realization dawned in Kristy's eyes.

"But, what?"

David noticed the intensity of the silence in the room had risen.

Kristy refolded her hands. "But usually we get letters to the editor about stuff like that."

"So, why do you think you didn't get a letter to the editor this time?" Denton was the epitome of calm, even casual, as he spoke. Suddenly David had visions of him in a courtroom as a trial lawyer. "Why do you think, instead of waiting for your article to be printed so he or she could respond in a letter, someone tampered with the paper's layout and altered your story?"

Every adult in the room except Pastor Snyder leaned in to catch Kristy's answer. David could tell she was choosing her words carefully. "Well, my guess is whoever was behind it wanted a strong reaction."

"Whoever was _behind_ it?" Denton paused, considering. "You don't think one of your staffers acted independently on this? You suspect there was another force or group at work here?"

Dean Seitz shifted in his chair. "Dr. Denton, as I was explaining to Jonathan, Ms. Eliot does not have to answer question she feels implicate --"

A movement across the tables caught David's eye. Pastor Snyder had raised a cautious hand. "Ms. Eliot does not have to answer the question, Dean Seitz. I believe Mr. Denton is suggesting that, because my students' organization was alluded to in the article, the CCC must somehow be involved."

"Given that we share many of the same students as members of our organizations, I was suggesting that, Pastor. Do you care to quell my suspicion now, or should I directly accuse you?"

Various stages of disbelief registered on faces around the room, but David wanted to jump from his seat and cheer. His chest tightened and he bit back a smile. This was almost better than watching Jack take Snyder to task.

"Accusations are often misplaced, Mr. Denton." Snyder's bulging neck and round face were pink, but his voice remained steady. "The true enemy is easily disguised. If my students had anything to do with the newspaper article all this fuss is about, I am sure they were working under divine direction to expose that true enemy as the scourge of our community."

"Excuse me," Medda interjected. Her hands waved in the air before her face, bracelets clinking as her sleeves slipped down her forearms. "How many students do we have in the band, _Dr_. Denton? Eighty-five?"

"Over ninety this year."

Medda gave a small gasp of delighted surprise. "Over ninety. That's wonderful. And how many boys were named in this article as having come out?"

"Four," David spoke up, his pulse beating fast.

"Four. Four boys out of over ninety students in a marching band is hardly a 'scourge,' Pastor Snyder. Music attracts artistic souls -- some of them just happen to be homosexual souls."

As soon as she said the word, it was like a bubble had burst. David was relieved she had finally named "the issue" everyone else tip-toed around, but he saw Dr. Weisel squirm uncomfortably in his chair, and Snyder narrowed his eyes.

"Music should lift one's soul to God, Ms. Larkson."

The color guard instructor tilted her chin up defiantly. "Who is to say that isn't why these boys are in the program, sir?"

This time, David did not stop his smile.

* * *

"So?" Blink rocked forward from his seat on the futon, planting his elbows on his knees. "So then what happened?"

David, seated at Blink's desk, shrugged. "Well, mostly it got boring again. Snyder shut up after that. I got asked questions about what happened last week with the Delanceys."

"You tell 'em they deserved more than what they got?" Jack asked, his voice drifting down from Racetrack's loft.

David rolled his eyes. "If you mean did I tell them they threatened physical violence, yes, Jack, I did. But somehow it didn't seem appropriate to go into detail about the hundred other ways you could have fought them off had they not _walked away_."

Jack mocked David in return, rolling his eyes and mimicking nagging, but smiled as he did it. Blink had to wonder about what Mush had said the night before -- that did seem a whole lot like flirting.

"Yeah, all right, so what're these big shots gonna do about it, huh?" Race leaned back heavily in his desk chair, his legs outstretched and arms crossed, hat pushed up and cockeyed on his head.

"We don't know yet. There's a board meeting about it later this week."

Anger began simmering in Blink. "But Snyder . . . He basically admitted he made it happen. Aren't they going to do anything about that?"

"There's no real proof yet, though. Kristy isn't saying who she suspects," David said calmly.

"But the man's evil!"

Mush stirred next to him. "He's not evil, Ry."

"You're still defending him?" Blink shook his head in disbelief. "Mikey, the man's rotten."

"I'm not 'defending' him. I'm just saying he's not evil." Mush sighed and flopped against the back of the futon. "Do I think he should be leading the CCC anymore? No. He is the reason I stopped going, you know."

The defensive edge in Mush's voice triggered some remorse in Blink. "Sorry," he whispered.

Not attending CCC for the past few weeks had been hard on Mush, Blink knew, but he hadn't really been talking about it. Something clicked in Blinks mind. Maybe the reason Mush kept to himself about it was because Blink flipped out about Snyder every time the CCC was mentioned. He'd have to change that. Starting now.

"I know not everyone that goes to CCC is automatically like Snyder. But he _is_ a creep, and they _should_ do something about it." Blink added, apologetically, "then you could go back to meetings."

"Snyder is definitely the lunatic fringe," David mused. "Not everyone thinks or believes what he does, and if they do, probably not to the same degree, but he uses their fears to his advantage and build support. He's like Voldemort in Harry Potter."

Jack snickered from above. "You read Harry Potter?"

"No." David scowled guiltily. "My little brother and my mom talk about it all the time."

Race interrupted Jack and David's repartee. "Speakin' of that. Weasel's startin' us on the percussion feature this week. At first I thought the Harry Potter theme wouldn't be so good, but it's a lot of keyboard stuff that looks pretty cool. He showed me the parts. There's this nuts xylophone thing to work out."

"I can't believe we're rehearsing for the last show of the season already." Mush's shoulders slumped. "It went by so fast."

"I can't believe Denton's got us going out on a John Williams show at all," Blink said. "Everybody does John Williams. Superman. Star Wars. Indiana Jones. It's like high school all over again."

Jack rolled up onto his side and propped his head on his hand. "You're just sore because the man writes more horn melodies than good stuff for sax. Maybe Denton won't pick those songs, anyway. And don't rip on Indiana Jones. Davey's got a crush on him."

"I do not! Just because there's a poster in my dorm --"

Racetrack got to his feet and held up his arms. "Okay, okay, knock it off. I gotta split to go set up. You guys comin' or what?"

Jack sat up and pushed himself over the side of the loft. "Yeah, I'm coming."

David stood. "Uh, yeah. I'll go, too."

Blink looked at Mush, and Mush mouthed _I-told-you-so_ before standing and stretching.

Still seated on the futon, Blink enjoyed the peek of Mush's chiseled abs he caught, but he kept his hands to himself -- if he didn't, they'd end up late to band instead of early. "Guys wait up. Lemme get my shoes on."

* * *

As they neared the rear entrance of the Fine Arts building, David saw a lean silhouette hunched against the brick just next to the glass entryway. It was hard to make out distinguishing features, but judging from the slim shoulders and glow of a cigarette, he guessed it was Spot. And he was right.

"Well if it isn't Jack-be-nimble-Jack-be-quick and his accompanying glee club," Spot smirked, sending up a stream of smoke from his bottom lip.

Jack ignored the gibe but stopped short of entering the building. "Hey, Spot." David nodded his greeting -- mentally noting the decal on the door to Spot's right that featured a cigarette surrounded by a red circle with a bar through it and the words "within 30 feet" -- as Racetrack immediately asked Spot if he'd seen the percussion feature parts.

Spot wagged his head, bending a knee and propping the sole of his Converse hi-top on the brick behind him. "Nah. Haven't been in yet." His gaze flickered over Blink and Mush, who were standing in closer proximity than was perhaps normal for two young men. Spot jerked his chin at them. "So how's that workin' out for you, Meyers? You like his dick okay?"

David cringed, but Mush just shrugged. "I don't have much to compare it to, so yeah, I guess." He half-smiled as Blink shoved him in the shoulder, but his cheeks looked a little pinker than they had before. Jack and Race chuckled.

"Should you be laughing there, Kelly?" Spot flicked some ash to the sidewalk. "According to the paper, Jacky-boy's playin' like he's a queer."

David scooped his chin into the collar of his jacket. All afternoon he'd been internally agonizing over Jack's behavior -- telling himself Jack wasn't flirting, he was just teasing, because Jack was straight and straight guys don't flirt with their guy friends, and that's what they were now, again, guy friends, just guys that were friends -- and now Spot was splashing a floodlight on it.

"You believe everything you read, huh?" Jack retorted easily.

David closed his eyes briefly, marveling at Jack's ability to dodge direct answers.

Spot took a thoughtful drag on his cigarette. "Well, that's just it." He pointed to Jack, the cherry of his cigarette burning between his fingers. "All around I hear little birds chirping about how you made it all up. How you said it for the attention. How you're a liar."

Jack lifted and dropped his shoulders, but the gesture wasn't quite as loose or leisurely as it might have been, and David thought he heard an edge to Jack's voice as he said, "So? What's it to you, anyway?"

"It's nothing to me, Kelly. Just thought you should know what the word is. Either you're a dirty rotten liar or a dirty rotten queer. You should work on your image."

Racetrack bounced on the balls of his feet while Blink threw an arm over Mush's shoulders. David was the only one who didn't laugh.

Suddenly a smile illuminated Jack's face and his shoulders loosened. For some reason, that made David feel more nervous.

"Well, I don't want you thinking I'm a liar, Spot, so what would you say if I told you it was true? That the paper's got it right?"

Spot raised an eyebrow and shifted against the wall. "I'd say prove it."

Jack clapped his hand to his heart. "Every word of it's true. I swear. Just like I told Oscar and Oscar told the paper."

David's abdomen was clenched as tightly as his fists in his jacket pockets. He was torn between acknowledging that maybe Jack was a heartless, clueless jerk and praying to God he meant what he was saying.

Spot flicked his cigarette butt to the ground and crushed it under his toe. "That isn't good enough. You want me to believe you," a twisted smile crept over his face, "you gotta show me, Jacky-boy."

Racetrack huffed a nervous laugh. "Whaddya want him to do, kiss you?"

Spot sneered. "Funny."

David's fight or flight instinct dropped into overdrive. He darted his eyes from Jack to Spot to -- Jack was looking back at him.

"Show you?" Jack said to Spot, but his gaze fixed on David. "Yeah, I can show you."

Jack swiftly covered the space between them, and David felt one hand cup the back of his neck -- open fingers sliding up into hair -- followed by the other hand slipping over his side at the same instant Jack's mouth met David's surprised lips.

As David's eyelids flew wide, he immediately registered the fact that Jack's were closed. And this was no token brush or tight-lipped tap. Jack was kissing him. Deeply. His eyelids slid shut.

Instinctively, he tipped his head back, allowing for Jack's height. He'd just wrangled his hands free of his pockets when Jack broke off the kiss and stepped away.

David wobbled.

"Is that proof enough for you, Spot?"

David opened his eyes slowly, drifting back to his surroundings enough to notice shades of stunned on Racetrack's and Blink's faces and something like sympathy on Mush's. A corner of Spot's mouth quirked up and he shook his head, reaching for the door handle. "That was pitiful, Kelly. Next time mean it or even your rep as a liar will be shot."

The boys' guffaw echoed in the building's entryway. David wasn't sure if he was laughing because it really was funny, or if the remaining adrenaline in his system was causing his larynx to shake. But he was damn sure Jack had meant that kiss.

Still laughing, they took the short flight of steps down to the locker room mezzanine. Jack play-punched Spot in the stomach, and David saw Blink quickly lean over and kiss Mush's neck. Racetrack led the pack; he adjusted his cap, smile revealing his cluttered teeth, before shoving his back against the locker room door and walking it open.

Jack and Spot stopped hard just steps inside the door, so hard that Blink, Mush, and David slammed into them. Mush's nose bumped Jack's shoulder and he pressed a hand to it.

Trapped at the door behind David, and without the advantage of height, Racetrack called, "Hey, what's the hold up?"

Jack and Spot stumbled forward to clear the way, and immediately David understood.

Pasted to the end of every locker row, every pillar, every exposed wall, and some lockers were photocopies of a picture. The same picture. And even though it was in black and white, and even though you couldn't see the entirety of the boys' faces, the pinched-bill cap of one and skinny frame of the other clearly identified them as Racetrack and Spot.

And they were clearly kissing.


	11. Naked Truth

**Disclaimer: **Newsies are Disney's. Story contains slash. It also contains political and religious rhetoric, none of which reflects the views of Disney or FFnet or me, for that matter.**  
**

**A/N: **Profound thanks are owed to those of you who continued to read and review in my absence, as well as my busy busy beta clio21000, my silent partner-in-crime D, and little lielabell whose last-minute two cents were greatly appreciated.

It's been five months, but we're picking up right where we left off . . .

* * *

**Chapter 11** --** Naked Truth**

Jack coughed in mock modesty. Blink and Mush gaped at each other and then back at the display in front of them. Racetrack's jaw opened and closed wordlessly. Spot cussed.

"Motherfucker." Spot's anger seethed cold -- David could feel it steps away.

As if Spot had spoken a magic word and released him from a trance, Racetrack stalked to the nearest photocopy and ripped it off the pillar. He examined it for just a second before shredding it in half and launching himself around the immediate area, tearing down more of the posters and spewing his own string of swear words.

While Blink and Jack tried to subdue Race, David pulled one of the pictures off the bank of lockers to his right and studied it. The boys were kneeling as they shared an open-mouthed kiss. Spot's splayed fingers were clapped over Race's neck and cheeks, and Race held fistfuls of Spot's baggy t-shirt at his shoulders. In the background, David could make out fuzzy shapes of a few onlookers.

All six boys' heads snapped up and they went silent at when they heard a surprised, "Oh my God," from the other side of the locker room -- someone had come up the mezzanine steps.

Race crumpled one last poster in his hand and let it drop on the floor. "Great. Fan-fucking-tastic." Mush put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, but Race pushed it off. "I'm going to set up," he spat and left the way they'd come in, punching hard at the door's release bar as he exited.

Naturally, the other boys' attention turned to where Spot leaned against a bank of lockers. He raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms, almost as though he was waiting for them to explain themselves, rather than vice versa.

Jack spoke up first. He bent and picked up one of the pictures Race had crushed, tugging it open. "It sure looks like you 'mean it' here to me." He paused, not hiding the smirk breaking across his face. "Is this why you wanted to know if the paper was right about me? Or maybe it's your own rep you're worried about. Whaddya say, Spot?"

Spot's eyebrows dropped into a glare. "I got nothing to say, Kelly. Not to you, not to anybody." He pushed off the lockers and strode purposefully away from the exit Race used, through the growing crowd of bewildered band kids, fishing out a cigarette as he went.

"It's not for real, right?" Mush asked Jack, taking a few steps toward his locker row.

"Hell if I know. Picture's real, I think, but I don't remember that happening when I was around."

Blink shook his head. "There's no way. Race is the straightest guy I know."

"Yeah, but three months ago you could have said that about him," Jack retorted, jerking his chin toward Mush.

Blink frowned in amiable consideration and shrugged slightly. "Point taken." He turned to follow Mush.

And then there were two. Aware of the sudden awkwardness, David squared his jaw and pushed forward, hoping to get out of there and into organized rehearsal where he could count on Denton and Sarah keeping the band occupied and at attention enough that he could avoid speaking to Jack.

Things had been going so well, for almost a whole two days. He should have expected them crash and burn.

"Davey, wait." Jack grappled for his upper arm, pulling him back and toward the drinking fountain alcove, away from prying ears.

For the moment, David bit his tongue, but he glared fiercely and it seemed to unsettle Jack.

"Look," Jack kept his voice just above a whisper. He darted a glance over his shoulder before continuing. "I'm . . ." He pushed out a sigh and shook his head, jostling his shoulders, then licking his lips. "Look, I'm -- I'm sorry. I didn't have time to warn you. I just thought if . . . I just thought since I had the chance to freak Spot out, I should seize the day, you know?" The beginning of a rueful smile twitched on Jack's mouth, "But I guess maybe it didn't freak him out as much as maybe turn him on. . . ."

David made sure his body language clearly told Jack that his attempt at humor fell flat. For the first time since David had met him, Jack looked antsy. Far from the cool and collected natural leader.

"Um, anyway, I just wanted to say thanks. You know, for playing along." Jack glanced at the tiled floor shiftily. "You, ah, made it convincing."

David narrowed his eyes. He wasn't letting Jack off so easy this time. "So did you."

Jack's head snapped up, but then he puffed a few nervous laughs. "Yeah? Well, lots of practice. With girls."

"Mm." David crossed his arms and nodded in agreement. He widened his stance, too, effectively trapping Jack in the alcove. "Like my sister, right?"

Jack blanched.

Now that he had the upper hand, David wasn't sure he wanted it. What he wanted was to rewind the past few weeks, or even months -- start over at band camp and build from there. Maybe if he'd been more honest early on he could have saved Jack the lies and himself the pain. But he was here now, again angry with the person he least wanted to be.

Jack very much resembled a little boy waiting for his punishment, and David couldn't blame him, considering how heated his last outburst had been, but he was beyond outrage at this point.

"Spot's right. You are a liar, Jack. And I knew that, but until today I had it backwards. You didn't lie when you stood up to Oscar." He wagged his head. "No. You lied that day in Denton's office, you lied to Spot, and you lied to me just now."

On a roll, and therefore feeling a swell of bravery, David stepped nearer to Jack, crossing the personal space boundary. He unfolded his arms and leaned in so close he could feel Jack's posture waver, smell the mixture of open air and bar soap on his skin, hear him catch his breath. David lowered his voice to just above a whisper, "The big irony about the newspaper article is that in the middle of all those other lies, the part about you is true."

He hovered a beat, forcing Jack to look him in the eye. When he did, David knew he was right. But instead of triumph, David felt suddenly sick. There was fear in Jack's eyes.

His stomach did its familiar clench, and he stepped back. "So you can keep lying to yourself, but don't lie to me. I know now."

When David looked back, Jack was still rooted to his spot in front of the fountain, hands in fists at his sides and eyes pinched shut.

* * *

Blink blocked out the honks and shrills of the other band members warming up and tuning, focusing on the sound of his own instrument and trying very hard to dispel the mental image of Race and Spot making out. He blew through a scale, adjusted his mouth piece, and did another scale before flipping to one of the trickier sections of a song from their previous show and practicing that until Skittery called the band to attention -- effectively startling the crap out of Blink, who hadn't even realized Skittery was standing next to him -- and the ruckus abruptly halted.

Because he was seated directly across the room from the percussion section, Blink's gaze naturally traveled there as Denton got all geeky about John Williams and movie soundtracks and audience recognition and this being their last show. Race stood at his snare almost in full attention position: sticks snapped together in his fists in front of him, shoulders squared, his gaze concentrated forward on Denton. Even if the other percussionists weren't as intense as Race, they were certainly tense. No one thumped the carpet with his or her sticks or mallets; there was no excess chatter.

There were, however, quite a few covert glances ping-ponging from where Race stood at the center of the snare line, alert and angry, to where Spot . . . well . . . kinda slouched at the end of the quads, as far away as possible. Spot slumped in a chair behind his drums, and although he looked somewhat skinnier than usual, he also had a sneer at the ready for anyone he caught looking his way. Including Blink, who gulped and shifted his eyes back to his music stand to examine the passage Denton was referencing.

Damn. Spot and Race? Spot and Race. Sittin' in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.

Blink shuddered, imagining the bodily harm that would come to him if Racetrack knew he'd just thought that, whether it was true or not. Yeah, Blink did not envy the percussion section right now. He didn't have to be as smart as David or observant as Mush to figure out that seeing pictures of your very hard-assed male section leader and drill instructor swapping spit spelled A-W-K-W-A-R-D.

Refocusing, Blink shuffled his new music and realized Jack had been right about Denton's choices. Not the usual adventure movie fare. Well, there was a medley of the Star Wars-Indiana Jones-Superman trifecta, but the theme from _Jurassic Park_ and _Catch Me if You Can_ were also on the set list. Plus the Harry Potter feature Racetrack had been having kittens over. All in all, something for everybody. Though he probably wouldn't admit it out loud anytime soon, Blink planned to model his own directorial style after Denton once he got his own band.

Blink lost himself in the sight-reading survey of the new music, sparing the occasional wandering gaze at Mush who was concentrating intently over his clarinet, and before he knew it Denton was giving them five, which everyone knew really meant ten on a lax rehearsal day like today.

David appeared in front of him as Blink detached his sax and settled it on his chair. Blink watched as David watched Jack pass by with narrowed eyes (and made a mental note to bring that up to Mush). After Jack was gone, David leaned in, "Do you think we should talk to him?" he whispered.

Blink swung his head, checking the half-empty band room for someone in sight David might be referring to. "Who? Jack?"

"Race." David rolled his eyes and grabbed Blink's elbow, dragging him toward the door. "He's pretty pissed off, in case you missed that, and I think someone should talk him through it before --" Both David's sentence and steps stopped short as they reached the lobby.

Blink turned enough so that David could see his good eye wince. "Too late."

David gave a defeated sigh and pushed his fingers into his forelock of curls. "Yeah. It is."

Across the lobby, near the entrance the boys had clamored through an hour ago, a very angry Racetrack was almost nose-to-nose with a very smug Lexie, gesturing wildly.

Apparently Race and Lexie arguing didn't rate as very interesting anymore, because most of the other people milling around ignored them. Or at least pretended to. Jack lingered in a nearby corner feigning a lull in conversation with a few of the other percussionists, while Dana, of all people, accompanied Lexie, presumably for moral support.

Blink trotted over, aware of David at his heels, just in time to hear Race growl, "It_ was_ you! You're the one who took the goddamned picture. The whole thing was probably your goddamned idea, for all I know, so knock it off with that 'who me?' bullshit."

Lexie made a sympathetic face and reached up to brush her fingers over Race's cheek, but he batted her hand away. "Oh, Anthony. Think of it as me helping you. I just thought you should be honest with yourself and your friends."

Dana put a hand to her mouth and snickered.

Race lunged.

"Hey!" David shouted, reappearing in Blink's line of sight as Jack swooped in behind Racetrack with Specs, one of the bass drummers, and they each held back an arm. Blink dodged into the line of fire, glancing to see that the girls were fine before pressing a hand a to Race's chest. "Cool it. Calm down, man," he said softly even as his own pulse picked up tempo.

Race snarled, fighting Specs' and Jack's grip hard enough to make his hat fall off. He jerked his chin up and launched a wad of spit at Lexie, barely missing Blink's ear.

"That's it. Come on." Jack looked at Specs, who nodded. They tightened their grasp on Race's struggling body, enough to lift him slightly if necessary, and backed him away from Lexie and through the doors.

Blink waited until Race's shouts were muffled by the thick glass before turning back to Lexie. Whether she was faking it or not, Blink wasn't sure, but she looked shocked. Well, considering the spit glob shining on her shoulder, maybe it was real. "You okay?" he asked curtly.

Lexie made a disgusted face and stalked off. Blink looked to Dana who stood firm with her arms crossed, giving him an accusatory stare. He shrugged. "What?"

Dana rolled her eyes and huffed, then followed Lexie's exit.

"Oookay," Blink said to himself, spinning slowly on his heel. He found David and Mush behind him.

Mush smiled. "It's not you, it's me." He bent to grab Race's hat from the floor.

Blink swore this day could not get weirder. "Huh?"

"Dana," Mush waved a hand in the direction she'd gone. "She's only mad at you because of me. She's jealous." A corner of his mouth turned up sheepishly and Blink felt his insides get a little melty.

Before he could act on that feeling, though, David spoke up. "Guys," he checked his watch, "we only have a few minutes. I'm going to check on Race. You coming?"

Both he and Mush nodded and followed David outside to where Jack leaned against the building while Race paced out his anger. Specs nodded hello when he saw them approach, but took their arrival as his excuse to leave. Considering the black look on Race's face, Blink didn't blame him.

"Has he, you know, said anything?" David ventured.

Jack shrugged. "Nothin' except how Lexie's a back-stabbing, heartless, self-absorbed . . ." Jack looked away from them to consult Racetrack. "What was it you said?" he called.

Race turned to pace back their way, eyes to the pavement and hands in fists against his waist. "Ho bag," he responded without looking up.

"Ho bag," Jack finished. Race jutted his fist in the air, a sign of solidarity. "So, you know. Old news."

"Right," Blink heard himself say in stereo -- David smiled at him weakly before returning to the matter at hand.

"So, you haven't asked him what happened?"

"He flipped out on Lexie. She's the one that hung all the pictures."

"Yes, obviously." David planted a hand on his hip, stabbed his free hand in Race's direction, and said, "Look, is he all right?"

Blink noticed Jack was no longer really speaking directly to them, but just sort of tolerating David's questions. Jack shifted against the brick. "Hey Race, Dave wants to know if you're all right. You all right?"

Race rubbed the back of his neck and kept pacing. "Super."

Jack mimicked David's gesture in a there's-your-answer sort of way.

Mush cleared his throat and Jack focused his attention on him. "I think what David's getting at is it might help if he did talk about what happened."

Jack settled his arms across his chest and called to Race again. "Mush wants to know if you wanna talk about what happened and your feelings and stuff?"

"Nope."

"Sorry, fellas," Jack said smoothly.

Frustration surged through Blink. Okay, so Jack and David were having another spat -- that much he'd put together -- and Blink could deal Jack's getting his digs there because that's their business. But the fact was, David seemed genuinely concerned, Blink didn't doubt Mush's sincerity for a second, and Blink was Race's roommate, so if anyone deserved to know what the hell was going on in Race's head, he did. Plus, they were already pushing the time limit for their break and -- damn Denton -- Blink was actually kind of excited about this John Williams thing and just wanted to cut the drama and get back to the music.

He strode over to Race, and rooted himself in his path. "Spill it, Higgins."

Racetrack glared.

"Nobody hates fucking drama more than you. After a year and a half in that damn dorm room, I at least know that much. So yeah, Lexie's a bitch and she shouldn't have plastered those pictures all over, but you're pissed about more than that, and if it's about what we're all thinking it is, then, seriously, you're not gonna get a more sympathetic audience than us after everything that's happened in the last week, so give it up." Blink drew a deep breath.

Race grimaced at him, but conceded. "It's not what it looks like," he said calmly.

Finally.

At some point in his ramble David and Mush had snuck closer. "Just tell us what happened so we can help you deal with it," Mush offered, and Blink heard David add in a mumble, "One way or another." Mush elbowed him.

Race pointed to Mush's fist. "Can I have my hat?" Mush handed it over silently and once Race had settled the cap in place he sighed. "We were at a party. We were drunk. It was a bet."

"That's it?" Blink heard himself in surround sound again, and realized both he and David sounded a little annoyed. Mush elbowed them both.

"Yeah, _that's it_," Race mocked. "I barely remember it. Hell, I don't even know who I was bettin'. Make out for two minutes -- seemed easy enough. Think I earned a few bucks for it." He gave tense shrug. "Until today I forgot Lexie had immortalized the moment."

Oh. Well, then. That made sense, Blink decided. A lot of sense. Too bad it was all being blown hugely out of proportion given the timing of the picture being made public. He saw David and Mush nodding, probably coming to similar conclusions.

Jack's voice drifted from Blink's bad side. "I don't remember being at that party."

Race squinted, considering, or remembering. "Yeah, you were there. It was freshman year. You were, ah, busy by that point in the evenin'."

Blink turned to see Jack lift an eyebrow. "Busy?"

"You know, _busy_ . . ." Race hinted deeply. He rolled his eyes when Jack didn't catch on. "Screwin' around with Sarah?"

Jack's face went blank and pale, and Blink couldn't resist darting a look at David, whose own pallor had a distinctly queasy cast. "Oh. _That_ party," Jack muttered.

A sharp laugh escaped Race's throat. "Yeah, that one."

"So you're not gay?" David prodded. _Way to rally there, Dave_, Blink thought.

Racetrack leveled his chin and looked solidly at David. "No. I'm not."

A few seconds passed in silence, but then Blink felt Mush's fingers clasp around his wrist. He looked down at their hands, then up at Mush's face. His jaw was slightly ajar and his eyes were wide -- some sort of realization had just dawned.

"You're not gay," Mush repeated. "But, what about Spot?"

To Blink's astonishment, Race said nothing. Did nothing. His hands hung at his sides, his mouth stayed shut, even his eyes remained trained on Mush.

As Race's silence registered as a tacit acknowledgement of truth, Blink looked around for the deep crack that would be opening up the sidewalk to swallow them any second now and the black, sulfurous clouds that would be gathering overhead to rain down acid. This had to be either the beginning of the end of the world (oh, Snyder would go fucking ballistic on them) or a really, really complicated prank. Because, for some reason, Race and Spot together had a twisted kind of logic to it, but Blink was having trouble wrapping his brain around the idea of Spot secretly lusting after guys all this time.

Jack, however, was not. "Ha! That snarky little bastard." He wore a self-satisfied smirk. "I knew it."

"You sure did, Jack," David said quietly, icily. Blink glanced his way and shivered involuntarily. Or maybe it was the cold air finally getting to him.

"We should head in," Mush spoke Blink's own thought aloud.

Jack put out his arms and gestured to the door like a butler, waiting for Blink, Mush, and David to pass him. They trooped back inside in silence, and somehow they weren't even late. Close, judging by Denton's baton tapping impatiently on the music stand at his podium, but they weren't the last to take their seats.

In fact, Skittery and Sarah were the last band members through the door. Skittery settled in next to Blink, while Sarah called the band to attention before sliding in at the end of the flutes two rows up.

Blink sighed as he shuffled his music to _Jurassic Park_ and sent a longing glance Mush's way. The afternoon's emotional rollercoaster had wiped him out, and what he wanted most was to chill on the futon with Mush and maybe catch some rerun on TV or look over notes from theory. Or make out. Oh, and he wanted dinner, too. They should definitely eat first.

"Okay, let's try from the top. Here we go," Denton's hands carved the beat into the air, "One, two, three . . ."

* * *

David frowned at his laptop screen. It was getting late and even though he'd written a lot in the past few hours, he'd also been moving commas around this paragraph of his Ethics paper for the last forty-five minutes. It was moments like these he wished he'd been assigned a roommate, even a bad one. At least then he'd have a chance for real distraction without physically seeking it out by visiting someone else's room -- that would imply he had actually given up on being productive.

He sighed, checked his e-mail for the twenty-seventh time and considered changing his away message on AIM to something a little less exclusionary than his current "Shhh . . . I'm very busy and important." He opened and scanned the document of literature fragments and interesting quotes he'd been periodically adding to for a few years. A jolt of recognition and appropriateness, and maybe a little spite, hit him as he read, "Most truths are so naked that people feel sorry for them and cover them up, at least a little bit," from Edward R. Murrow.

Without a second thought, he copy/pasted it into a new away message. JazzCowboy621 was idle (with no away message), and the baser part of David felt a smug satisfaction just for having put it up, even if Jack never got it. Though David had a feeling he would -- literally and figuratively.

Making a deal with himself to finish his Ethics paper once and for all tomorrow (it was due Thursday -- he had time), David fished a dollar from his wallet, grabbed his keys, and headed down to the lobby and the soft drink machines. The trip was uneventful, unfortunately. The only people he encountered were ones he didn't know very well, like Mush's roommate Crutchy who piped a friendly, "heya, Dave" from his spot on one of the couches with what looked to be a study group, and people he had no desire to know any better, like some of the CCC members who regularly hung out with the Delanceys.

As he wandered back down the hallway toward his room, bottle dangling from his fingers, he realized he didn't even want a soda. He sighed again and watched the pattern on the carpet pass under his feet.

"Looky here. A walkin' mouth."

David's head came up so fast he had trouble focusing for a second. "Spot?"

Spot placed a hand on his own chest, stretched out his other arm, and gave a small bow as though he'd just finished a virtuoso performance. David noted that Spot also held a bottle in his hand. Only Spot's bottle looked glass and had a paper bag around it.

Speedily unlocking his door, David hissed, "What are you doing here? With that?" Spot took an unconcerned swig on the bottle and didn't answer. David wagged his head. "Fine. It doesn't matter. But you have two choices: get the hell out of here before an RA notices you're drinking on campus, or come in until . . . well, until that's gone."

"You worry waaay too much, kid." Spot said without so much as a slur, but complied with David's invitation. He dropped into a half-seated, half-slouched position on the extra bed before David had even taken his shoes off. "Got your own place here, huh?"

"Yeah." David sat back at his desk and cracked open his soda, nerves jangling. "Seriously, Spot. Why are you here?"

Spot's expression was as suspicious as David's tone. "Out for a stroll down memory lane."

It occurred to David that might be partially true, especially given the pieces to the Spot Conlon puzzle he'd been handed that afternoon. His reporter-on-the-story sense kicked into hyperdrive. "And that?" He nodded at the bottle still in Spot's grasp.

"Want a hit?" Spot proffered the mouth of the bottle.

"No. I meant is it helping you remember or forget?"

Spot's eyes narrowed and he took another sip. "Jack's right about you."

David rolled his eyes, taking a second to check his buddy list -- JazzCowboy621 was still idle. He seriously doubted Jack knew the first thing about him at this point, but that didn't stop his curiosity. And David was pretty sure he'd learned at least one thing about Spot: less gets you more. He stayed quiet.

Sure enough, Spot kept his gaze steady on David. "He says you don't take shit from people. You go straight for the point."

Okay, that stung more than David thought it would. Maybe Jack really was paying attention. He did his best not to flinch, but -- drunk or not -- Spot was probably keen enough to pick up on his hesitation. "So tell me about your thing for Racetrack."

Spot glowered and flipped David off, nursing his drink as he did so. "It's not a thing," he said once he swallowed. "I don't have a _thing_."

David lifted an eyebrow, then started ticking off points on his fingers, beginning with his thumb. "Today there were about thirty copies of a picture showing you making out with Racetrack posted all over the band locker room. Racetrack isn't gay. And tonight -- a Monday night -- you're drunk."

"Fuck off. It was my chance and I took it."

"Your chance?" David knew he had no right or claim to this story. Although he hung out with Race a lot and respected his long friendship with Jack, David couldn't say they were great friends. And he barely knew Spot at all. But, damn if this wasn't fascinating. Plus, he's a journalist -- he could protect a source just as well as Kristy. Not that any of what he was hearing now would end up in print. Ever.

"Yeah. To show that smart ass Higgins maybe he's not as straight as he thought he was."

David couldn't resist a small smile at that. "So you're the one who suggested the bet?"

"What, he tell you he doesn't remember?" David didn't answer and Spot gave a disbelieving (or disgusted -- David wasn't sure), "Pshht," then took another drag on the bottle. David wondered how much was left in there; not much by how far Spot had to tip it. "He fucking remembers. We were drunk, and he'd still rather fuck girls, but he remembers."

Recalling Racetrack's reaction to Spot's asking about Mush, David had to concur. "So what're you going to do now that everyone knows?"

"Nobody knows nothing."

"I know. Blink and Mush and Jack know."

"And whatever you think you know, you're not gonna breathe a word about it." A slow, mean smile turned up one corner of Spot's mouth. "I'll toast to Snyder for that one." He raised the paper-bagged bottle, but didn't sip.

"So that's it for you." An edge crept into David's voice.

Spot's smile fell away and his gaze became stony with seriousness. "No sense fighting when you can't win, kid."

Every tendon in David's body tensed. _No_, he wanted to yell, _that's exactly when you _should_ fight!_ But he had the feeling Spot expected him to say that. So he didn't.

Spot's concentration seemed to have wandered. "So Higgins and I made out. So what? It was like three, four years ago now? He thought he was hot shit, I thought I'd take him down a peg and see if he really was or not, all rolled into one deal. We were drunk. No consequences."

David frowned. "But there were consequences."

Spot's laughter startled him. "Yeah. One or two." He shrugged. "Lost a few bucks on it." David opened his mouth to respond, but Spot waved a hand to stop him. "Yeah, yeah. I know. That's not what you meant."

"Actually, I was going to ask, 'was it worth it?'"

At that, Spot dug in his coat pocket, brought out the cap for the bottle, and screwed it on. He shifted away from the wall and planted his feet on the tiled floor, then leaned forward with his elbows at his knees. "You still askin' about me, kid?"

David felt like he'd slipped, or had a rug pulled out from under him while he was on rollerblades. He crossed his arms, knowing very well it was much too late to cover. "Tell me again what you're doing here?"

Spot stood up slowly, so David did, too.

"You invited me in for a friendly chat. Thanks, Davey. You're a pal." He clapped David's shoulder and turned for the door. He fingered the knob for a few seconds before turning it and stepping into the hallway. Then he lingered, facing David but studying the crumpled bag around the bottle. "He's chickenshit, you know."

A tingle went up David's spine. "Who is?" He asked, hoping to sound light and causal, and failing completely. His voice was tight, and higher than it should be. "Racetrack?"

Spot unscrewed the cap on his bottle, then re-screwed it and stashed the whole thing in his coat. He hitched his shoulders and took a few steps down the hall. "No. Jack," he said without looking back.

* * *

**End Note:** Okay SpRace fans. If you're still with me here, please accept these recs as my penance for not fulfilling your OTP -- just wasn't in the outline for this story.

_FUGAZI_ by BravoFoxtrot (aka FalcoConlon and hilby). A gritty, visceral WWII AU featuring soldiers!Spot and Race. Frelling brilliant. And promises to be H-O-T.

_Lunch with the Captain_ by hilby. Among the best-researched fics out there, this is AU transplants the boys into 1954, just after the Korean War. Spot's a veteran, Race works at a diner, and their banter is not to be missed.

Also, if you need just a quick fix (and can stand a little self-promotion) there's a oneshot on my LJ from months back called _Pay Off_ that starts with mafia dons and ends with Race in only his socks.


	12. No News Is Good News

**Disclaimer: **Newsies are Disney's. Story contains slash. It also contains political and religious rhetoric, none of which reflects the views of Disney or FFnet or me, for that matter.

**A/N:** Just as the I was about to claw my eyes out and abandon the story, clio21000 quite rationally suggested that perhaps I was taking on too much for one chapter. Praise and thanks for her insightful betaing.

* * *

It was shaping up to be a rough week. Tuesday had been a mix of gossip and awkward silences. Wednesday, David kept catching Jack's doleful glances and some more gay-bashing hate speech was scrawled on his whiteboard, just for fun. Thursday was the first time since its inception the _Cougar News_. did not go to press. David steeled himself against all of it by throwing himself into schoolwork and the new show music.

He was walking out of the library on his way to the Fine Arts building for his scheduled practice room time when he spotted Kristy. She was seated alone in a cluster of chairs, frowning at her laptop and typing with concentration. David stalled in his tracks. He hadn't seen or tried to contact her since Monday's meeting - because it wasn't like they were friends - but she looked pretty busy at the moment. Deciding to brave it anyway, he trotted over and perched against the arm of a chair next to hers. "Hey."

She looked over with a wan smile. "You heard the news?"

"News? No. Did they come to a decision?"

Kristy sat back, away from her laptop. "Yup. They decided I shouldn't be EIC anymore."

David's brow shot up and jaw dropped down in surprise. "What? You're kidding. It wasn't your article . . . In fact, I wanted tell you I was glad to find out you weren't behind it all. You have no idea how pissed I was."

"Oh, I have a rough one." Her lips gave an ironic twist. "But, I guess they need a fall guy, and since they can't pin it on Snyder, I'm it."

"So, you're done." David supposed he knew it would come down that way, but he had more respect for Kristy now than before and it was still unfair. "Even though Seitz knows you had nothing to do with it? That it was somebody else connected to Snyder?"

"That's just it," Kristy sighed. "I told him it wasn't me, and even though he was all 'you don't have to name-names' the fact is he can't corroborate my story. Kenny, the sports editor, took the disc to the printer's, but he left the office for about a half hour at one point, and that was plenty of time for somebody to tamper with the layout. And he's not saying who else was there either. So, even if I was willing to give up a name that leaves enough room for doubt."

David crossed his arms and pursed his lips in thought. "Can't they just demand you tell them who did it? Or at least who else was in the office?" When he'd thought it was Kristy's article, protecting her source was within her rights, but now. . .

"It seems more like they don't really want to know, doesn't it?"

"Exactly."

Kristy's smile brightened with satisfaction. "Glad you see it my way, Jacobs. Got any theories in that curly-haired head of yours as to why they haven't suspended me until I fess up?"

David laughed self-consciously. Sarah had IMed him the other night expressly to tell him he needed a haircut. He scrubbed his fingers up the back of his neck, but dropped his hand at the memory of Jack's fingers making the same motion.

"Maybe they don't want to incur the wrath of the Lord?" This time Kristy laughed, but David only gave a wry smile. "Actually, I think that might be true to an extent. Can you imagine what would happen if the administration openly accused a 'student-run' religious organization of pushing an agenda by sabotaging the school paper?"

Kristy's smile lessened and she sighed again. "Only in my wildest dreams do I dare."

David ducked his head in half agreement and stared at the floor. She was right, it was a long shot. Too long a shot. Too much to hope for. Seitz might really be protecting Kristy and the saboteur as per his job as dean of students, but David couldn't shake the feeling that Snyder's tentacles reached further up the hierarchy than any of them originally thought. Or maybe it was just the politics that had the higher-ups running scared.

Both he and Kristy were silent for a few seconds. David chewed on his lip.

"Do you know Calvin Cates?" Kristy's voice was low and a little sad.

David snapped his head up so fast he thought a tendon popped. "The red-headed kid? Freckles?" She nodded; he shrugged. "I know who he is." If Kristy was about to say what he thought she was . . . If he'd been right all along . . .

"He grew up around here. Family barely makes ends meet, but they've been going to the same church every Sunday for over twenty years. Big congregation. They have a scholarship fund that they contribute to, and one kid wins it every two years. Calvin's won it twice. It doesn't cover everything, but without it he wouldn't get to attend college. His parents are very proud of him. The whole congregation is."

Oh, God. She didn't even have to say it. A dark, sick, and sinking feeling invaded David.

Yes. He'd been right but, he realized guiltily, so had Mush. He's such a nice guy. He wouldn't write something so messed up on his own. David wasn't sure if pieces were falling into place, or shattering into smaller pieces. He couldn't do much more than gape at Kristy.

Her tone turned flip, "Anyway, I don't know who did it. Fact is, I was in charge and I dropped the ball."

David played along, but that black, sick feeling still twisted his stomach. He tried to smile to suppress his gag reflex. "You sound a little too okay with the whole thing."

Kristy cocked her head and smiled. "Well, they took EIC away from me, but I'm not off the staff. Could be worse."

"Ah, I see." David forced himself to stay in the moment and concentrate. There was nothing he could do. "So who is in charge? And what about the paper itself?"

"The paper should go to press next week on schedule with some kind of politely vague retraction about the whole mess. As for EIC, I have no idea yet. I would have said Kenny, but I don't think he wants it, and since he was implicated in this whole thing, your guess is as good as mine." She reached down beside her chair and pulled up a bottle of soda. "If you had a year under your belt with us in addition to what you did at your other school, I'd recommend you, for what it's worth."

David stopped slouching. "Really? Thanks."

"You do good work. And you think around stuff, not just about it." She shrugged and took a sip of soda. "You got brains."

Another memory of Jack flashed. Of Spot, actually. _Jacky-boy tells me you got brains._ And that reminded him of Monday night. _He's chickenshit, you know._ "Ha, thanks." David toed at the leg of the table Kristy's stuff was sprawled over, and a new idea flickered to life in the back of his mind. "Hey, even though you're technically not the boss anymore, is that opinion column offer still on the table?"

Kristy lifted an eyebrow. "You're interested now?"David waffled a hand mid-air, but smiled. "Maybe."

Her eyes narrowed. "You're up to something, Jacobs. Spill it."

"The way I see, this whole gay-bashing thing is a PR nightmare for the school, especially if anyone alerted the state or national media. They need to do more than print some vague apology."

"Agreed. So?"

"So, as an interested, invested party I would appreciate the opportunity for fair comment and response. Perhaps right some records about what did happen and ease some of the rampant homophobia - or at least start a constructive conversation toward that end."

"Ah, but as an interested, invested party, aren't you precisely who shouldn't respond?" She baited, irony again tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"It'll be on the opinion page, and it's a great first column to kick off with. Should drum up readership."

Kristy full-on grinned. "God, I wish I could make you editor. I mean, sure I'd like the position back, but since that's not gonna happen . . ."

David felt his cheeks heat up. Joining a smaller staff definitely had its perks. "So you think the paper advisor and Seitz would go for it? The column, I mean."

Kristy leaned forward eagerly and started poking around on her laptop. "Let's send them an e-mail, shall we?"

* * *

They were supposed to be in class. Blink knew that. But he also knew that if he raised his thigh just a fraction higher he'd rub a particularly sensitive spot and Mush would make this incredible noise and then kiss him harder. He bent his knee between Mush's legs and pressed upward. Yeah, that noise. Kind of like a hiss.

Blink wondered if Mush's professors had noticed a marked difference in his attendance over the past few days. Then he wondered if it was possible to die from arousal at age nineteen as Mush's hand slid down his back and up the front of his thigh.

It wasn't like they messed around all the time - just kind of at inconvenient times. In a lot of ways they were still getting used to each other, and the novelty of, say, nakedness was sometimes too much to resist. Just now, for example, all Blink had done was nibble on Mush's earlobe as a goodbye before sending him off to Econ, and the next thing he knew the clothes he'd put on an hour ago were stripped off and he was on his back on the futon wearing only Mush. Not that he was complaining. This was a much more instructive anatomy and physiology lesson than Professor Whatshisface's lectures, and Blink had always been a hands-on learner anyway.

Blink reached up to the back of Mush's neck, holding him to their kiss, fully aware of the sugary taste of breakfast cereal and toothpaste on Mush's tongue and the progress of his hand as he stroked the inside of Blink's thigh. Mush moved closer with each pass but didn't touch Blink's growing hard on. For as much as they fooled around, Mush was still kind of timid about some things, though Blink was definitely getting the sense that was about to change. He moaned and squirmed, trying to resist forcing contact - he wanted to let Mush set his own pace, but he was also dying to zoom through comfort levels.

He skimmed his hands over Mush's shoulders and threw his head back, allowing Mush to kiss his throat and collarbone and neck. For some reason that always got him. He wasn't sure if Mush had figured it out somehow, or if it was a great coincidence that Mush liked to kiss him where Blink liked being kissed. Either way, it was awesome. Blink lightly dragged the backs of his fingers up Mush's sides as he nuzzled his neck and circled his fingertips closer and closer to where Blink wanted them.

A tidal wave of lust crashed over Blink as Mush gently cupped Blink's hard on. Blink's breath caught and stuttered into a moan. He bit his lip to prevent anything in the form of words from escaping.

Mush inched down and lapped at Blink's nipple, and Blink's body arched in response, his voice involuntarily issuing an "Oh, _God_." His breathing sped up even though the firm rhythm Mush established as he continued to stroke Blink remained slow and steady. Mush's palm was hot and slick, and it was as much mental as physical effort for Blink to keep his hips pinned to the futon.

Mush circled a thumb over and around the head of Blink's dick, and Blink felt his body surge. His patience fled. He wanted as much as Mush could give, wanted to come for his best friend, wanted to bring him off, too. "Please, Mikey. Please," he begged, fumbling his hands down Mush's warm skin toward his waistline. But Mush used his free hand to gather Blink's wrists and pin them above his head, his pace never faltering.

"Please? So, more like this?" Mush asked and adjusted his grip so his palm twisted up and over at the height of each stroke. Blink gasped. He felt Mush smile at his cheek. Felt him rock against his hip. Felt him press harder to keep his arms up and wrists locked in place. Blink surrendered to all of it, only opening his eyes briefly to see Mush scanning his exposed body with maybe a little bit of awe but definitely a lot of lust.

He squeezed his eyes shut again and whimpered.

"Or maybe like this?" Mush's voice was milk-chocolate smooth and it brought Blink that much closer to the brink. Then he realized Mush had let go of his wrists and was sliding down his body, searing his chest and stomach and thighs with kisses, and -

The soft, wet heat of Mush's mouth blew all the circuitry in Blink's body, and he couldn't tell if he'd just melted into Mush entirely or if he was rigid from head to toe. He also rolled in his lips and bit down to keep himself from disrupting Mush with words and concentrated on his slow rhythm. But he knew he had to open his eyes, had to see how good it looked in addition to how good it felt.

Blink pried his head and shoulders off the futon far enough to see Mush's dark curls bob over him, and his head swam with surrealism and lack of blood and raging hormones. Mush was sucking him off - that alone was too good to be true - and Blink knew he was aroused to the point of leaking, knew Mush could taste it. He flopped back and reached above his head again and grasped the cold metal arm of the futon for the reassurance of reality. He concentrated on not choking him by keeping the thrusts of his hips low and steady on with Mush's motions.

But then Mush's tongue teased this slit of his cock and Blink hurtled toward orgasm. "Oh fuck. Oh, Mikey," he warned. Mush drew his mouth away and replaced it with his hot, spit-slick hand. He sat up and, smiled and Blink saw he was jerking himself, too. At that, Blink's eyes snapped shut, a bone-deep burn sizzled through him. and he erupted. "Fuck, Mikey. Fuck, I love you."

Mush's hand froze.

Blink panicked but couldn't stop another (now wildly inappropriate) ribbon of climax from sailing through him. "Oh fuck," he said again, this time with an entirely different intonation. Mush's wide eyes were fastened on Blink and he still wasn't moving. "Mikey, I didn't mean that." Blink smacked his palm against his face. "No wait, I mean, I did - I mean, maybe I did. I mean-" He quickly clamored out of Mush's grip and sat up, reaching for Mush's other hand, too.

The facts that it was mid-morning, that they were naked and sticky, and that they would probably be facing a seriously outraged Race over the state of the futon cover hadn't escaped Blink, but his main concern was coaxing Mush out of the catatonic state he was in.

"Mikey. Can you hear me? Are you okay? Did I scare you? I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to say that . . ." He patted Mush's hand and sort of ducked his head, hoping to trigger a response to his movement. "Mikey?"

"Do you really?"

Mush's voice was a strained whisper and his gaze was definitely focused enough to imply regular brain activity, so Blink relaxed a little. "Do I . . . you mean, do I really . . ."

"Love me," Mush finished for him, the words steady and strong this time.

Blink glanced down briefly before returning to Mush's gaze. "Yeah. Yeah, I really think I do. But I didn't mean to say it like that. Like, during . . . I mean, while we were . . . Well, while you were -"

Mush's lips cracked wide in a smile and color hit his cheeks. "I love you, too, Ryan."

Blink grinned back. Hearing that was more amazing than what they'd just been up to. Way more. And before he'd opened his damn mouth that had all been pretty freaking fantastic.

Then again, if he'd kept quiet then he wouldn't have just heard Mush say those amazing words.

He made a face. "I've messed this up very single step of the way, haven't I?"

Mush laughed and squeezed his hands before releasing them, then looked around for a place to wipe. He decided on Blink's nearby discarded t-shirt, probably also recognizing Race would not appreciate further damage to the futon. "Yeah. Kind of." Mush smiled and shrugged. "But that's part of why I love you."

"Wow." Blink shook his head in disbelief and unfurled his legs from underneath him to stand. "You just say it like that. Like it's so easy. A few months ago you weren't sure you liked boys, and now -"

"A few months ago I couldn't say the words 'I'm gay' but I still could have told you or anyone else that asked that I loved you." Mush got to his feet first and yanked Blink up, too.

"Oh," Blink said, inches from Mush's mouth.

"Yeah. 'Oh' is kind of what I thought when you kissed me."

And the thought of kissing Mush, and the scant inches between them, and the fact that they were naked . . . well, Blink couldn't really help the shock of interest his brain sent to his crotch. "So, were you planning on going to History of Music today, or . . ."

Mush's eyelids lowered and his smile got suddenly sexy. "I was going to go, but something came up." Blink tried not to snicker as Mush leaned in and touched the tip of his tongue to Blink's lower lip and his hands settled at Blink's hips. "What about you?"

Blink licked his own lips and closed his eyes for just a second, remembering what it felt like to be pinned under Mush. "No, I'm not going. Since I missed anatomy and phys, I really should study that instead . . ."

For a second Mush's eyebrows met over the bridge of his nose, but then he laughed. "Oh yeah? Can I help?"

* * *

David made it to rehearsal early. He propped his trumpet case on a bench at the sideline of the turf field, flipped up the latches, and was cracking it open when someone's wriggling fingers found his sides. He shrieked and shimmied away from his tickle attacker as best he could, letting his case lid dropped shut. Out of breath, he turned to see Lou grinning at him.

"Lou, I swear to God, if you ever do that again -"

"You'll what? Scream like a girl again? You almost sounded like that cougar I told you about." She sat down on the bench to assemble her clarinet and squinted up at him happily. "How you been, Dave?"

David ran a hand into his forelock, letting his heartbeat resume its normal rate. "This week? You don't really want to know. But at the moment I'm good." Just to make sure that was true, David scanned the dome and few gathered band students for Jack. He was over near the forty-yard line with Spot and laughing with a senior female saxophone. David felt a weak twinge of jealousy, but that was a significant improvement over the frustration and dull anger that had gnawed at him earlier in the week.

Lou glanced over her shoulder then up at David again. "I heard there's trouble in trumpet paradise."

Leave it to Lou, David thought. Mush had mentioned she'd ribbed him for being late to a sectional earlier in the week, too (and David had decided he was better off not knowing whether she'd been correct about what had "held him up"). He shrugged off Lou's probe, but she didn't drop it.

"Please. I heard it's been like Antarctica over there this week." She stuck a reed in her mouth and forged ahead with her usual lack of tact. "That's worse than what Anna told me the drumline's been like, and they just saw pictures of their section leader with their drill instructor's tongue down his throat." David sputtered into his mouthpiece, causing a funny buzzing honk. Lou simply rolled her reed to the other side of her mouth. "Seriously. Something's up."

"What's up?"

David hadn't noticed Blink bound over. Mush trotted behind him as Lou smiled wickedly, "Oh, I was just asking David what's with the mega awkward tension in his section this week."

Blink cringed immediately but, to his credit, sobered his expression even without one of Mush's discreet elbow nudges. Mush glanced at David then shrugged. "Maybe it's Lexie? She's been going to CCC meetings with Dana, I guess. And they both seem pretty mad at all of us."

Wondering if that was the closest thing to a lie Mush had ever told, David rolled his eyes up to the over-bright banks of fluorescent lights suspended from the dome arch. Tonight was their last Thursday night rehearsal - the first night he'd been in here seemed like years ago now.

Lou shook her head in response to Mush. "She has. But I don't think she's the problem." She gave David a hard stare, fitting her music flip folder to her instrument without looking.

"How are the meetings going, by the way?" David figured since she obviously knew there was something (God knew what) going on between him and Jack that his obvious topic shift would be just as good as outright telling her to drop it.

"They're awful." Lou paused for Blink and Mush to finish assembling their instruments before starting toward the field and continuing. "Snyder's upped the anti-everything rhetoric last night to the point where people were starting to get uncomfortable. Even people who were weirded out when Mush said he was gay at the start of this whole thing."

David glanced ahead and wasn't entirely surprised their little group was gravitating toward Jack and Spot, but it didn't mean he had to like it. He'd been civil to Jack - answered questions, complied with section leader orders, refrained from glaring while others were present - but he supposed Lou wasn't wholly wrong about the trumpet section feeling chilly. Maybe David's cold shoulder really was freezing everyone else out. But it couldn't just be his fault could it?

"Well, that's a good thing, right?" Blink asked.

David drew himself up out of his own brooding depths to guess where Blink was coming from. "Yeah, it is. Even if they don't suddenly think being gay's not a sin, they're at least starting to doubt Snyder."

Lou rolled her eyes. "Yeah, well, he's still got enough support to show up for another pre-game prayer this weekend."

Blink made a disgusted noise and David inwardly agreed. Even Mush seemed dismayed by the idea. "It's our last show! Why's he got to mess with it?"

"That's exactly why," Lou said as they slowed and stopped at the forty. "It gives him a reason to be there - wishing us luck and congrats on a great season, blah blah blah."

David nodded to that. So Snyder wasn't backing down. If anything, it appeared Monday's meeting had only fueled his fire and brimstone. He gave a small wave of greeting to the group they joined. Neither he nor Jack smiled, but they managed to make eye contact in acknowledgment of each other's existence. For once David was too lost in other thoughts to be concerned about it, though. Instead, his brain kept repeating the same idea: if the administration wasn't going to stand up for them by shutting down Snyder, they'd have to do it themselves, somehow.

The pre-band banter had picked up around him and eventually David felt someone else's eyes on him. He looked over to find Spot staring at him, one eyebrow arched high. When David gave him the classic, annoyed what? look, Spot just smirked, glanced at Jack, glanced back at David, and sauntered away.

David glowered after him, still thinking _somehow_.

* * *

Like a little kid on a sugar high, Blink was too full of good vibes and extra energy to stand around and rehash what parts of the drill were hardest, who screwed up the formation every time, why measure thirty-four was a bitch to play and always got you out of step. He fingered the keys of his sax restlessly and shifted from foot to foot, sneaking small, shared smiles at Mush every few minutes (or seconds). When he saw Bumlets prance out onto the field down toward the end zone and catch the Frisbee Skittery tossed from the sideline, he laughed out loud in excitement.

He unclipped his sax from its neck strap and elbowed Mush all at once in his rush to get in on the Ultimate Frisbee match. Midstride he set down his instrument in the general area of his block formation coordinate on the way to the end zone then clapped his hands and called, "Throw it here! Whose team am I on?" Twenty minutes before rehearsal was plenty of time to get in a round or two.

Ten minutes later, Blink's team was down by a point and he was jogging to stay in front of Mush while keeping an eye on Sarah as she laughed and tried to dodge Skittery's defense. Sarah clutched the Frisbee and feinted throws, but Skittery was taller and his limbs were longer.

Just then, Mush gave him the slip, running hard to the other side of the zone, out into the clear and far enough to Sarah's side to get around Skittery. "Here! I'm open!" he shouted. Blink kicked into top speed as she flung the disc, barreling toward Mush and hoping he got to him before anyone else from his team. Mush leaned into his catch as Blink dove to intercept and they both lost balance in the collision. They hit the turf hard but grinning.

A cheer went up from Mush's team when he held up the Frisbee to prove he'd caught it, but being tangled up with Mush filled Blink with thoughts of a very different kind of scoring. He quickly wrestled his way on top, straddling Mush's hips and grasping (half-heartedly) for the Frisbee as Mush (equally half-heartedly, Blink was sure) struggled to get up or toss it away.

Panting, they paused their faux battle for a second and smiled at each other. Mush's eyes were shining and his face was flushed. Yeah, Blink thought with satisfaction, his best friend - boyfriend - is definitely hot. If it weren't for their teammates' catcalls to remind him where he was exactly, Blink would have followed that thought path all the way to its natural destination where Mush ended up naked (again).

But the whoops and hollers and laughter and complaints to get on with the game kept him in the moment and he got to his feet. Mush accepted a hand up, promptly throwing the Frisbee to one of the junior percussionists on his team. He beamed at Blink and took off running. Blink laughed and chased after him.

Neither of them made it very far, though. As they curved down around a few teammates toward the sideline, Oscar and Morris slid into their trajectory, halting them on the spot.

"Hold it, _Twink_." Oscar's mouth curled into a sick smile.

Blink wanted to scream. Or shove Oscar really, really hard. Or throw up. Couldn't this just be over yet? He clenched his hands into fists, bracing for whatever came next. He felt Mush at his shoulder in solidarity, but was surprised to hear him speak.

"Take off, Oscar. We're in the middle of a game."

That was true, Blink thought with some hope. He looked to his right, hoping the other members of the Ultimate teams had noticed their absence. Bumlets was high-fiving Sarah, but it looked like Skittery's attention had shifted to Blink's end of the field.

"No can do, fairy. You boys crossed a line."

Frustration overtook fear - because really, the Delancey brothers were nothing as compared to Jason Gurney - and Blink spoke up. "We didn't do anything. Get out of the way." He made a move to bypass them, but Morris again blocked him and snarled.

Oscar crossed his arms and shook his head. Blink wondered if he'd been taking sinister smile lessons from Snyder. "Oh, but see, you did. You faggots just can't keep your hands off each other, can you? And some of us find that a little offensive. A little disgusting."

"So what're you gonna do about it, Oscar? Have your brother beat them to a pulp right here in front of everybody?" Jack approached with his hands in his pockets, voice and stride loose and easy. Blink noticed David wasn't far behind, crossing the turf with his typical concerned and critical look. The Frisbee match had broken up, too.

Oscar glared fiercely. "Ah, the fairies' fearless leader," he mocked.

"Scram, Oscar. Rehearsal's about to start." Jack said smoothly, tossing his head in the direction of the fifty. Blink wished he had Jack's calm poise under pressure. He looked to Mush, who was nodding at David as if to say the situation was under control.

But the Delanceys didn't budge. Blink couldn't fathom what was keeping them in place, what sort of delusion had them believing they could actually win this point through sheer force. Or what sort of faith. Again he looked to Mush. Blink wondered if it was harder for him because he could understand.

There was a tense moment of silence as Oscar and Jack stared each other down, and Blink had a flash of deja vu. Grudgingly, Oscar let his arms fall to his sides and took a step back. "Start praying for your soul, Cowboy, because you're as good as dead," he sneered.

Jack outright laughed. "Oh yeah, look at me. I'm trembling."

Blink looked to Mush and David and saw his own smile mirrored on their faces. But he thought he saw the spark of something else in David's expression, too. Like a light bulb just flipped on.

Oscar and Morris retreated. As soon as they were out of earshot, Blink prompted David. "What? Tell us, Dave." Jack and Mush appeared to be just as baffled as Blink.

David's smile only broadened. "I've got an idea. Tell everyone you think might want to help. We're meeting in my room at ten, after rehearsal and your guys' sectionals. I know how we can end this."


	13. Starting from Here

**Disclaimer:** Newsies are Disney's. Story contains slash. It also contains political and religious rhetoric, none of which reflects the views of Disney or FFnet or me, for that matter.

**Extended A/N:** Um, so, hey guys . . . long time no see, eh? *coff*

Please let me humbly submit my apologies for my inattention to this fic. I had intended to only take a short break last fall, but some icky life stuff waylaid me for months, and then -- after some deep soul searching, considerable outline consulting, and much teeth gnashing -- I made the decision to backtrack a little and add a David-focused chapter that takes place earlier in the story's timeline.

This is good news for you, dedicated reader! It means that in this post you're getting TWO shiny new chapters. The backtrack bit now appears as chapter 6, "Man-Movie Night." Because of this addition, all the existing chapters have been bumped forward. Therefore, the text below is actually the chapter formerly known as 12, "Starting From Here" (which has been slightly reworked, though the basic events have not changed), and the following chapter 14, "Full Circle," is the official continuation of the story.

I sincerely hope that those of you who have stuck with me for (egads!) over two years can forgive my extended absence and that everyone enjoys these additions. Also, I am aware that bumping the chapters forward disrupts the correlation between reviews and chapter content -- it could not be helped. (But I believe this means that the system will prevent those of you who submitted a review to the original chapter 6 from commenting on the new chapter 6. If you find yourself in that category, I hope you will consider leaving a comment here or under chapter 14 instead.)

Many thanks to the continued support of long-time readers, uber fangirl Lielabell, the ever-faithful and patient D, and my busy busy beta clio21000.

* * *

**Chapter 13 -- Starting from Here**

"One more time, guys!" Denton's voice echoed through the megaphone from the top of the stands. David watched shoulders sag as sighs rose from the band. "Last time I'll say that, I promise." The megaphone clicked off then back on. "For real this time." Tired laughter from the band followed.

Band members broke ranks and headed back to the home sideline for their last full-show run-through of the evening. David squeezed open the spit valve on his trumpet and blew through the mouthpiece as he followed the crowd into position. Line-up on the sideline was tight, which of course meant he'd been elbow-to-elbow with Jack and Lexie repeatedly over the last three hours. But somehow, it hadn't killed his good mood. In fact, he'd taken Lou's words about the subzero temperatures in the trumpet section to heart, so he'd made a point to chat more with his section mates and even given Jack more than one-word responses. It was almost like everything was back to normal. Almost.

"Remember to watch your spacing in the arc during the medley, guys," Lexie called out in her drill instructor voice to the section. "And this time, David, try to keep your horn angle up with the rest of us, will you?" she added cattily as she spun into place next to him.

David smiled. Why she'd bothered to single him out, he didn't really know, or care -- his bell had been in the air, pointed at the press box last time through -- but he let it roll off easy. "Sure thing, Lex. Absolutely. Whatever you want. I will do my best."

Lexie fixed a glare on him. At his other side, Jack chuckled.

David kept his own laugh in check as Sarah commanded the band to ready position. Racetrack hit one, two, three, four taps, the band marked time for four silent beats, and together David, Jack, and Lexie stepped off from the sideline on count one.

The next few minutes were a blur of bodies in motion, music, turf and conductors' batons. David kept his horn angle up and shoulders square to the sideline perfectly (just like last time). He only fumbled one measure before stopping on cue to pause in position for the Harry Potter percussion feature, which proceeded to be amazing -- as it had been every time he'd heard it tonight.

From where he stood at parade rest, David could barely see the staggered rows of mallet instruments at the sideline and could only just make out Dutchy's blond head as he bobbed over the vibraphone, but he heard them loud and clear. The slow, magical, eerie start -- enter a bit of horn section accompaniment provided by he and Jack and other brass players -- then the wind-up into the flight theme and Dutchy's mallets darting over the metal bars with a proficiency that had startled everyone.

Of course, on their first run-through a few hours ago Dutchy had finished the last swirl of notes to pause triumphantly, then turned on the drum major's command and promptly stumbled into cymbals. (Denton had since suggested those percussionists playing mallets for the feature leave their regular instruments at their drill coordinates before moving down to the sideline.) Still, David right away understood Race's excitement for the piece, Harry Potter though it may be.

On Sarah's horns up and downbeat, they were off again. More roll-stepping and counting. David checked his peripheral vision to make sure he wasn't too close to either Jack or Lexie in that arc formation. And then they were moving down front and stepping into the final pose, where everyone lifted their bells and bellowed the last note of the Indiana Jones theme. Sarah gave the cut off, and David could hear his blood thump at tempo in his ears in the few seconds of pause before the count into fight song and the march off the field.

Denton stopped them just a few bars in. "Fantastic job, everyone! At ease. Really great. Killer job on that feature percs. And the balance was better that time with the altos and clarinets during 'Catch Me If You Can' this time, thanks for that. All right, gather around the fifty. I'll be down in a minute."

Already focused on getting back to his room to be ready for the meeting he hoped word had circulated through the band about and his big reveal of The Plan, David moved toward the sideline center, but didn't get two steps before bumping into Jack.

"Oh. Sorry, Davey," Jack said lightly and gave him two quick, friendly claps on the back.

Probably neither of them meant to, but they both stiffened. He could only guess at what made Jack's posture tense, but David knew exactly why his had -- one touch was enough to make him want another. And another. Which is not what you're supposed to want when you're supposed to be mad at someone for lying to you repeatedly. David tried not cringe through those awkward, unmoving seconds and wished he could think of something to say. Jack simply cleared his throat, mumbled another apology, and trotted over to meet Denton. David lingered a few more seconds, watching him go, then shook it off.

He chose a piece of turf middling distance from the podium, to the left around the 45-yard line, and had a seat. Crossing one ankle over the other, he perched his elbows on his upraised knees. The pose stretched that patch of muscle between his shoulder blades that ached fiercely from holding his arms in the horns up position all night. He rolled one shoulder forward to pull a little harder and wished he knew someone willing to give him a back rub. An image of lying on his stomach and letting Jack knead through that tight spot washed over him so strong it was like a memory.

David opened his eyes, only then aware he'd closed them, as Lou settled next to him. "I told some of the CCCers," she whispered conspiratorially, cranking loose the screws of her clarinet ligature. "Some of the fence-sitters, so to speak. I think they'll be there. You're in VanAntwerp Hall, right? I told them to meet me in the lobby."

The ache in David's back panged as he rolled his other shoulder. "Yeah. Room three sixteen."

Lou laughed. "Oh, they're gonna love that. That's _perfect_."

David raised an eyebrow.

She stuffed her reed back in her mouth and her lips bent in a smile around it. "Gospel of John? 'For God so loved the world . . .'?"

"Ah." David studied the turf between his knees. He'd heard that one before. He even knew the next few words -- _he gave his only begotten son_ -- but that about exhausted his New Testament knowledge. The stuff he could quote, anyway.

It was kind of funny though, considering what he had planned.

From front and center on the sideline, just under the drum major platform with the pool of band members at his ankles, Denton clapped a band-ten-hut to get their attention. "I'm going to keep this short on my end here because I know you guys have worked hard this week, especially tonight, and there's more ahead of us tomorrow. So just let me say thank you -- really and truly. You all make me so proud." Denton's voice caught in emotion, and David felt a twinge of real respect and affection for his band leader. Despite his questionable drill charting, Denton was a solid guy. Denton clear his throat. "Okay, well. On that note, I'm going to hand you over to our band president for the official send off. Have a good night, everyone. Thanks again."

Jack sat on platform, legs dangling over the edge, Skittery and Sarah off to one side, Skittery leaning his elbow on her shoulder. David realized they'd looked extra chummy all evening, actually. He made a mental note to pester her about that later.

"So," Jack launched into his speech, "We come a long way, but it's not over yet. Tomorrow there's work to do, like Denton said, because Saturday's a big day. It's the last home game for the football team and our last show for the season so we should give them something to remember the Cougars by, win or lose." He clapped his palms together, dropping them into his lap. "But. Right now, it's just us in here in the dome together and I want to say thanks for a good year."

Briefly Jack led them through the highlights, and a few lowlights with humorous spin, of the year and the band collectively laughed and moaned and contributed. David only half listened. Instead, he watched Jack as he performed for the crowd, controlling the flow and incorporating the shouted comments. He watched his sloppy smile and admired his relaxed command of words and the other students.

If Spot hadn't said it, there was no way David ever could have guessed that Jack was scared of anything -- not the first day they met and not even once the libel hit the papers. If he hadn't felt it himself in Jack's kiss, hadn't subsequently seen it in his eyes, he would have trouble believing it now. The crazy thing about Jack Kelly was that watching and listening to him made you want to be close and know everything about him, but somehow he never let you.

David could count on one hand the things he knew for absolute sure about Jack. He knew a little about Jack's dad and he knew that Sarah had dated him, that he was a damn good trumpet player, and that he didn't like mushrooms on pizza. But there was more to him, David was sure of that. And being denied access to that information was the reason Jack's lies angered him so much. David earnestly wanted to be trusted and habitually wore his heart on his sleeve, and every time he learned something new and important about Jack, something he wanted to treasure and build off of, Jack had swept the truth out from under him.

* * *

Seriously, Blink hadn't known this many people could fit in a 12x12 dorm box. Granted, David's room was pretty much half empty all the time anyway, but still. They were probably over fire code. And that was damn cool because it meant they stood a chance on Saturday.

"Okay, so it's pretty simple, right?" From his perch on the corner of his desk, David scanned the crowd for final assurances. It was a mix of concerned band members, like Bumlets and Pie Eater and Anna from the cymbal line; kids who were also CCCers, like that quiet, cute mellophone player Itey and his girlfriend; and all the major players you'd expect to be there.

The only person Blink thought might come but hadn't was Spot. Race, of course, still wasn't speaking to Spot, so Blink and Mush had made it a point to tell him about the meeting. Despite the personal invite, though, when the sax and perc sectionals ended (and after Dutchy had collected all the sticks that had clattered away when he'd dropped the unfastened mallet box off the back of the equipment truck), Spot very pointedly saluted the gathering contingent with his rolled up drill charts and sauntered silently off the field. But whatever. Spot was just . . . Spot.

"And everyone knows his, or her, part?" David asked. Blink nodded with enthusiasm like others around him and David sighed into a happy slouch. "Good. Very good. We can and we will be heard on this, guys. We can't change everyone's mind, but I think we can keep Snyder from making up their minds for them."

Muttered agreements rounded the room. For the heck of it, Blink gave Mush's thigh and affectionate squeeze. He'd looked very serious and conflicted while David was describing The Plan, but he was smiling now. Blink wanted to encourage the smiling.

"Lou, you'll get those quotes to Jack and I? And Sarah, you and Skittery will make sure Denton's filled in?" The two girls and Skittery assented. "Well, that's it then, everybody! Thank you for coming, and for being part of this. I think I speak for everyone personally involved when I say it means more than just 'a lot.' So, unless anyone wants to change their mind or second-guess something, or back out," -- Blink wondered if it was obvious to anyone (or everyone) else in the room that David was maybe kind of totally passive-aggressively addressing Jack there -- "then let's call it a night!"

With lots of yawning and moaning and stretching and chattering, the group of kids unfolded themselves from their seats around David's room and started to leave.

Blink looked to Mush. "You okay with this?"

Mush gave a thoughtful nod. "Yeah. Yeah, I think I am. It's the right way to go. And, I think you're right -- it is time for us to do something about Snyder. I'm sorry it took me so long to really see that, even after what he did --"

"Hey," Blink put up a hand. "You always want to believe better of people. It's okay. That's a good thing, Mikey." Mush smiled and Blink poked a quick kiss on his nose.

"What about you, though? You okay with this? I know it's not really your thing . . . I mean, last time we talked about it you weren't really even sure there is a God, so. . . ."

Blink's heart skipped a little knowing that Mush remembered that conversation from some incredibly late night playing videos games last fall. Stuff like that was exactly why he loved the kid. "Yeah. This I am okay with. And if this works, then maybe there's a God worth believing in."

Mush's brow furrowed. "Ryan," he started in cautiously, "I'm not so sure it should work that way. . . ."

Blink laughed and swung an arm around Mush's neck, locking him a half-nelson and gently yanking him to his feet. Gullibility was another reason to love Mikey. "I know, I know. Now come on. It's late and David wants his room back."

They were indeed the last few people in there. Based on Sarah's flushed cheeks and huffy posture as she stalked out the door, it appeared David had teased her enough to send her packing. Jack was lingering and something about that made Blink decide to cut short the gushy thank-you speech he'd been composing for David in his head.

He clapped a hand into David's and shook firmly. "You sir, deserve a medal."

David returned the shake, then escorted them both to the door. "We'll see if it works, first."

Blink looked to Mush and they came to a consensus with a glance. "Oh, it will," they said in tandem. "Jinx!" Blink rushed to add, but he couldn't quite get out the words, "You owe me a Coke," since Mush's hands were suddenly pestering his sides in very ticklish ways. "Thanks, Dave. For real!" he managed through laughter as he tried pretty uselessly to defend himself. "Mikey, you are so in for it!"

As soon as they stepped into the hall, Mush jogged a few steps ahead. "You promise?" he taunted. Blink licked his lip. Yeah, there were a lot of reasons to love this kid.

* * *

Chuckling, David closed the door behind Blink with a smile on his face, then leaned forward and dropped his forehead to the cool metal in exaggerated exhaustion. He was tired, but he was also too excited to crash yet.

"You know, I knew you were talking to me, Dave, with that part about second-guessing and backing out." Jack's voice reminded David he wasn't quite done for the night yet anyway. "So I just want to tell you that I've thought a lot about it, and you're right about what you said last week. Remember? About how I can't be something I'm not."

On his happy success high, David couldn't help but tease. "What? Smart?" he asked, pushing away from the door. Turning, he saw Jack twirling his baseball cap between his knees and staring determinedly at a distant spot on the floor. Tension seeped into David's spine. His smile fell.

"No." Jack did a few more loops with his cap and then winced as he said, "Straight."

Plunging from one emotional extreme to another, David stood stunned. He immediately began searching Jack's face to estimate his honesty. Jack hung his head limply sideways, barely able meet David's eyes, and he looked . . . scared. Like all he wanted was for David to tell him that it wasn't a bad thing and that everything will be all right, and that yes, now they can --

God, David wanted it to be that easy. At one time it might have been. But now he was tired of the game, tired of second-guessing, and tired of being lied to. The truth of what he'd seen and felt in Jack on Monday still reverberated through him, but that didn't mean Jack was ready for it. In fact, if David had learned anything about the infamous Jack Kelly in the past few days (heck, at all) it was exactly that Jack was not.

Not sure what to say, David lowered himself onto the bed next to him.

Jack fidgeted under David's silence, his thigh bumping against David's knee. David sighed and tried to relax the ache in his abdomen by slumping back against the bed's footboard. "Jack, look, I know -- I know it's been a really confusing few weeks. _Really_ confusing." He stared down at his lap and chose his words carefully. It was important for Jack not to feel rejected, but David just didn't believe Jack was ready to jump into deep end of the gay pool headfirst. He picked at his bedspread. "You've found out some pretty big stuff about people you've known for a long time, and you've obviously been question --"

"This isn't about them, Dave," Jack interrupted. Jack's weight shifted on the mattress and David looked up just in time to see the last wag of Jack's head before he leaned in and covered David's mouth with his.

David jolted, but the footboard prevented him from backing away. And then Jack's lips parted and his hand again found David's neck, and suddenly David was kissing him back, eyes closed. It was just as deep a kiss as Monday's, and this time was slower. Their tongues met and David grabbed a handful of shirt at Jack's chest. Jack tasted like cola and cinnamon gum and --

David flattened his palm against Jack's sternum and pushed. "Jack, stop. Stop. No." He scooted out from under Jack's lean frame and chose to ignore the tremors in his thighs and knees as he stood, but when he whirled around to face him, he couldn't at all ignore the flush of Jack's just-kissed lips. Frustration strangled out of David's lungs in something near a growl and he stamped the tile floor. "You can_not_ keep doing this to me! You can't keep being Mister Charming-I-Kiss-Boys and then run away. You do this and then you take off and shut down and --"

Jack peered up at him, half wincing and half pleading. "I'm not running. That's what I'm trying to show you . . . I'm right here." His voice was earnest, but all David's pent-up hope and anger and desire and resentment were again chugging through him full steam.

"Right now you are. But what about tomorrow? What about Saturday with Snyder? God, Jack. If you don't show up then, are you just going to kiss me later and hope that makes it better? It won't. It can't!"

Manic, making-a-point energy started pumping and David heard his pitch rise and felt his pulse pound in his neck, but he couldn't get himself to slow down to keep from hitting verbal train wreck velocity. He pinched his eyes shut to keep from looking at Jack and derailing himself entirely.

"You haven't said a word to me, Jack. Not one truthful word about what you think or feel or want. I came out to the whole damn band, and my family, and you -- my best friend in this place -- you didn't say a word." He opened his eyes and glared.

Jack scrubbed his face with his hands. "I'm not good with words, Davey."

"The hell you aren't."

"Not these words."

David crossed his arms at his chest. "Try anyway."

Jack made an exasperated sound and flopped backward on the bed. David stayed rooted to his spot in the center of the cold floor. They were finally having this conversation and David wasn't budging until Jack produced an answer.

"You need to tell me, Jack. I need you to tell me what you're thinking and feeling -- I can't just guess. That doesn't work, in case you hadn't noticed."

Jack dragged his hands over his face once more then flung them up toward the ceiling. "It's you, Dave. Okay? I mean, what I think an' feel -- whatever it is -- it's about you."

Shock rocked David back on his heels, and when he rocked forward again his legs almost gave out. But for the first time in a week, maybe months, he relaxed. His stomach unclenched and arms fell to his sides. He was about to respond -- with what, he wasn't sure, but he gulped air silently for a few seconds -- when Jack's voice drifted up from the bed, calmer this time.

"I been trying to figure it out since day one, you know that? At first it was good to have you in my section, be around you. Come here and watch baseball. Eat dinner with the guys." A hand fluttered an et cetera, et cetera in mid-air. "But then it sort of became this thing I couldn't shake, like I didn't want to stop seeing you. But how do you figure telling a guy that? What was I supposed to do? I wasn't even sure it was . . . what I thought it was. And then you stood up for Blink and Mush and I found out . . . about you, and at the same time that you're Sarah's little brother and it was just too weird. For a while I thought maybe I liked you 'cause of how I liked Sarah." Jack leaned up on his elbows and met David's gaze so squarely and frankly that David almost gasped. "Did she ever tell you why we broke up?"

David self-consciously realized he was gaping and shuffled his arms back in place across his chest. "Sarah never told me you were together. So no, she didn't exactly rush to tell me why she ended it."

"Who said she did?" Jack frowned and scowled.

An unintentional, short laugh piped out of David. "Call it a guess."

Jack let it slide, his focus drifting down and away. "Yeah, well, she told me it was because she could tell I didn't mean it."

David rolled his eyes at how much that sounded like his sister. "Mean what, exactly?"

Jack's hands flew up in a shrug and he flopped back again. "That I really liked her. I thought I did, but she kept saying I didn't. That I wasn't genuine enough, or something. Anyway, I been thinking about that and how I had to be sure about . . ." Jack's hand made a grand arc over his body, "this whole thing."

Because he knew Jack couldn't see him, David smiled just a little at that.

"I was gonna tell you. But then the Delanceys were runnin' their mouths, and when I socked Oscar, I wanted the point to really hit home, you know? And then it all showed up in the paper."

David sighed. Part of him still wanted to fight, wanted to make Jack squirm and work for his forgiveness. But that would be more running in circles, and mostly he found himself wishing they could just start over. He took the few steps back to the bed and sat down next to Jack again, twisting around to look at him.

"Yeah, it was all in the paper, so everybody knew. Everyone found out and the world didn't end." He narrowed his eyes. "But then you lied."

Jack grimaced. "I know."

"If you know, then explain. Spot said you told him I don't take shit from anybody. So why keep feeding it to me?"

"Spot told you that, did he?" Jack laughed. "The little fucker. What else did he tell you?"

David leaned back to his elbows, wondering how much else Spot hadn't bothered to share. "Oh, lots of interesting stuff. But on my journalistic honor, I can't repeat a word of it."

Jack kicked sideways and swung his foot into David's calf. David smiled and knocked his own knee against Jack's in retaliation, but he wasn't letting him off the hook.

"So? Explain the mountains of bullshit you've been heaping on me."

With a sigh, Jack produced his baseball cap from somewhere in the vicinity of David's pillow and tugged it on low, the bill covering his eyes. Then he seemed to think of the better of it and flicked it up. "I don't know, Dave. I guess . . . I guess it was easier to have everybody else thinking whatever they wanted than it was to tell you or ask you or know what you'd think," his voice tapered off until it was low. Not a whisper, but soft, deep. "I tried to, though. I did try."

Frowning to himself, David stared blankly over his own chest and knees. Was it enough to know that Jack had tried -- or, _said _he tried? Much as he might want to forgive him, David wasn't sure it was.

"I didn't mean to mess things up so bad, Dave," Jack said soberly, as though he were studying every word before it left his mouth. "I didn't mean to . . . to hurt you. But, I know I did. And you need to know I'm sorry."

David let his elbows slip to lay flat on the bed. Yes, he did need to know that, to hear it and believe it. And the apology did feel genuine this time -- in part due to Jack's obvious struggle to get it right. It wasn't empty and hurried like Monday's had been.

He drew in a deep breath then pushed it out again. "All right."

Jack rolled his head to the side. "All right?"

There was a trace of fear mixed with the surprise in Jack's echo, but David understood now that it wasn't the kind of fear that comes from anger or confusion -- it was the fear that's a natural part of starting something new.

Because they had, David concluded, finally reached their startling line.

"Yeah," he turned his head to meet Jack's eyes. "It'll be all right."


	14. Full Circle

**Disclaimer: **Newsies are Disney's. Story contains slash. It also contains political and religious rhetoric, none of which reflects the views of Disney or FFnet or me, for that matter.

**A/N:** And now, the long-awaited continuation . . . .

* * *

**Chapter 14 -- Full Circle**

Considering this was a day Blink had long anticipated would count among the best in his life, he could be feeling better. A lot better. Like, if his heart could get out of his throat long enough to pump some blood to his fingertips, that'd be great. Instead, he fiddled with the keys of his saxophone numbly and swallowed nothing for the eighteenth time.

The band was crowded into the entry area corridor inside the dome. Team supporters of all stripes -- students, parents, local folk, and even traveling fans of the hosted team -- swarmed among the sequined and plumed band members. Everyone was eagerly anticipating kick off, but the game was definitely the last thing on Blink's mind. His focus was on the man wearing the dark suit (seriously, who wears a suit to a football game?) and smarmy smile midway across the crowd from where he stood. Snyder looked self-satisfied, smug as usual, which made Blink sneer, but at least it meant Snyder likely suspected nothing.

For the last day and a half Blink (and David, Lou, and crew) had been worried the plan would be leaked by a traitor in their midst. Of course they were ecstatic about the turnout for David's meeting, but this wasn't just a couple of angry kids anymore. This was war. Do or die. Blink swallowed again.

"You ready?" Racetrack tapped his shoulder and Blink nearly jumped.

"As I can be, I guess."

Race still wore his drum harness under his uniform jacket but had detached the snare drum and set it against the wall out of the way. Blink followed suit and unclipped his sax from his neck strap, setting it down carefully out of the flow of foot traffic. He blew on his cold fingers as he and Race casually wandered into the mob and approached cymbal Anna and another girl from the baritone section. It was subtle, but similar shifts were taking place throughout the crowd -- they were band members after all, they knew how to get into formation efficiently, and David had all but written drill charts.

Blink laughed in response to some joke of Anna's, but his heart and mind weren't in the conversation. He cast a glance around for David first, who he found off to Snyder's left, standing with Jack, and then searched for Mush. Mush stood more or less opposite Snyder, across the mingling masses, with Lou. He was just taking off his helmet and Lou teasingly mussed his curls to puff up his helmet hair. Mush smiled and he looked much calmer than Blink had thought he'd be. But that was good. Blink was nervous enough for them both. From deep in his own anxiousness, Blink surfaced enough to register Race seemed to be flirting with Anna, then plunged back into fretting. There was no way to know when this was going to start, but he looked to David for some kind of cue anyway. The genius of The Plan -- but also its greatest weakness -- was that it depended on Snyder.

All they had to do was wait. And hope. And -- ha -- pray.

Somehow Sarah had finagled marching the band down to the dome early, but game time was coming fast. Soon they'd have to line up for the pregame performance. The lines at the refreshment booth were already dwindling. Suddenly the smell of hotdogs and Gatorade and the glowing CatSnack sign triggered the memory of Blink's first ill-planned kiss with Mush. They'd been sitting just beyond the thick of this crowd over at the tables. That was the moment that had led to all this. David didn't know that, of course, but there was fitting symmetry in the fact that this was going to end (God willing -- again, ha) where it began.

Minutes passed. Blink fidgeted every second. He did managed to exchange a look with Mush and the bright smile from his boyfriend bolstered his confidence, momentarily at least. Because just then Snyder cleared his throat.

It was definitely one of those deliberate throat clearings, the kind that is supposed to command attention from every person in a twenty-yard radius. It was the clearest cue they could hope for. Blink darted glances to Jack and David and Mush and Lou. They'd heard it, too, and were ready. He looked to Race, whose smile was all ease and flirtation even while his eyes were suddenly somber. Race clapped him on the shoulder and pulled him into a noogie. Anna laughed.

A dozen or so CCCers were worming closer to Snyder and turning to give him their devoted attention. A greasy smile graced his face, and Blink could have sworn it was directed at him. "Friends," Pastor Snyder's voice was a raspy rumble, but loud enough to be heard clearly. "Friends, if I might claim your attention for a few moments before you are called to perform for the final time this season, now seems an appropriate time to give thanks to our good Lord."

Standing at Snyder's right elbow, Oscar Delancey nodded solemnly in agreement. Other CCCers, including Morris and Dana and Lexie, automatically formed into their standard circle. Bible in hand and cupped to his chest, Snyder eyed the gathering students and Blink watched as his eyes narrowed as he noticed that his number of faithful followers had dwindled. It didn't stop him from continuing.

"But before we bow our heads," Snyder began, "I would like to congratulate you all on your accomplishments this season. We are blessed to have so many musical spirits sharing their gifts and standing as examples of good Christian life for their peers. There have been trials for you in the past weeks, I know, but I am gratified that many of you have remained true to and spoken out for your beliefs in the face of challenge." Blink gritted his teeth and fought the urge to upchuck. "That said," Snyder continued, "let us ask the Lord to bless this last performance."

With impeccable dramatic timing -- and, Blink noted, one last lingering look shared with David-- Jack shouldered forward, stepping into the gap between the circle of die-hard CCCers and the rest of the mingling band members. In a spot-on imitation of Snyder, Jack cleared his throat.

* * *

"'Scuse me, Pastor Snyder, but we'd like to say a few words ourselves."

Anticipation tightened in David's chest as everyone's attention whipped to Jack. It threatened to make him laugh, but he managed to suppress the nervous giggle. Snyder's feature froze with false pleasantry, while at his elbow Oscar raised a suspicious eyebrow and Morris's upper lip lifted in a silent snarl. "Is that so, Mr. Kelly?" He scanned the crowd with a wary eye as knots of band members scattered through the crowd loosened and spread, advancing slowly. "And what do you have to say for yourselves?"

David winced inwardly. He'd gone over this with Jack time and again in the past two days -- whatever snide comments Snyder flung, Jack could not rise to (or stoop) to his level. If The Plan was going to work, Jack had to stay calm and cool as he did when speaking as band president or wooing a professor into accepting a late term paper. He had to prove he wasn't the loose cannon Snyder's planted newspaper story made him out to be. As Jack plastered on an empty grin and straightened his shoulders, David held his breath.

"You believe in the power of prayer, right Snyder?" Jack's tone was just this side of openly mocking, just toeing the line. Which was, of course, exactly what David had been trying to prevent because it was dangerous and stupid and . . .

Well, totally brilliant, actually. Jack had cornered Snyder with one surprise strike: Snyder couldn't very well say no to stop Jack from proceeding, but to say yes would allow a demonstration he surely did not want.

A glare sharpened Snyder's meaty face. "This is not a joke, son," he responded in a voice that was a menacing step deeper, but no less loud.

Jack didn't balk. "Nobody's laughing, sir."

Tension settled thick over the whole crowd as Jack and Snyder locked into a level stare. David checked his friends' faces and places. Everyone appeared focused and steady. To David's left, beyond Snyder and at the edges of the rising action, stood Kristy, tape recorder in hand. They caught each other's eyes and Kristy panned meaningful glance down at her recorder -- the tape was already rolling. She winked, and David returned her smile with a small, quick one of his own before double-checking everyone else's readiness.

Positioned directly across from Snyder were Lou and Mush. Jack couldn't have cued Lou up better, and she knew it. All concentration, she too stepped from the rest of the ranks of the increasingly aware and curious crowd.

With her typical assertiveness but a much more somber expression than usual, Lou spoke out. "You see, Pastor Snyder, we fear that you may have forgotten some of the most important tenants of the Christian faith." She paused, but not long enough for the shocked pastor to manage a response. "Jesus taught us to love the Lord our God with the whole of our hearts and souls and minds, and made this the first and greatest commandment."

Across from where David stood with Jack, Blink strode up. "But he also commanded that we love our neighbors, and that to love them -- to show them respect and compassion and mercy -- is to love him."

As they spoke, the CCC members who had joined the meeting in David's dorm room three nights ago also sifted out of the crowd, hands at their sides and various stages of worry and care on their faces. Other band members, including Jenny and Sarah and Skittery and Racetrack and Anna, did the same. All of them filled in the gaps between Jack and Lou and Blink, and a large circle began to take shape.

At its center, completely surrounded, was the small ring formed by Snyder and the core CCCers.

David took his own last few steps forward, planting himself firmly at Jack's side. "In the first gospel of John, chapter four, verse twelve, it is written that if we love one another, 'God abides in us and God's love is perfected in us.'"

Snyder, who was turning deepening shades of red, began to bluster. He spun in place, glowering at the solid circle of challengers surrounding him. "Children," he spat, "What do you think you're doing? You twist the scripture to--" His words spluttered as he remembered the gathering pregame crowd.

Oscar crossed his arms at his chest and sent a malicious glare Jack's direction. Morris faced the opposite way, toward Blink, but David saw him crack his knuckles. The rest of the CCCers' reactions ranged from wide-eyed anger to shamed-faced shuffling.

After checking his temper, Snyder started again. "Your use of the gospel to justify your erroneous beliefs is blasphemous," he hissed. "And it is hardly appropriate for you to accuse and confront a respected community and church leader in this manner. I will not tolerate it. It is slander."

David knew he should hold back -- knew it was off point, and not part of The Plan -- but he couldn't help himself. A mean smile twisted up his mouth and he felt Jack's attention shift to him. "Slander in print is called libel. You reap what you sow, sir."

Unholy hate sparked in Snyder's eyes but David didn't flinch, and at the corner of his vision he saw Jack face Snyder again and cock his chin in defiance, seconding David.

For his part, Snyder bordered on turning purple. He opened his mouth, presumably to launch into a tirade, but promptly clamped it shut with a start. David whipped his head in the direction of Snyder's gaze and saw Denton approach the outer circle, just behind Lou.

Panic flutter through David. They hadn't told Denton what they'd been planning, and though his presence had shut Snyder up, it wasn't outside the realm of possibility that he would shut them down. Denton assessed the situation silently and fully. He made eye contact with Blink, looked down at Lou with half a smile, and turned to David and Jack gave a shallow nod. And then took a step to join the circle.

At that, Snyder did turn purple. David's heart swelled. He quickly leaned forward to catch Mush's attention.

Mush took two bold strides to position himself within the circle's scope, the last of the principal players to do so. And his voice was sturdy as he addressed the enraged preacher, "We offer this prayer on your behalf, Pastor Snyder, even as we speak it for ourselves."

That was the next cue for action. As Mush said "prayer" each person in the larger circle clasped hands with his or her neighbor and, like a wave in a baseball stadium that does not subside, raised their hands to shoulder height with a bend of an elbow. Jack's hand wrapped warmly around David's, palm damp but grip firm. David allowed the mellow jolt of pleasure to run through him -- there was no need to suppress it anymore -- and bowed his head like everyone else.

In the few seconds' pause as the circle of supporters steeled themselves, seeming to take a collective breath for confidence, and the outraged, bewildered pastor snarled silently at his accusers, David peeked up through the curtain of his curls to search out Kristy in the crowd. She had edged her way closer to the preacher and protestors, still holding her tape recorder in one hand, and ready with a digital camera in the other.

* * *

_It's working. It's working. Dear God, it's working_, Blink chanted internally, His heart thumped in his throat and stomach simultaneously. Long-smothered hurt had burbled to the surface as he watched the circle of solidarity close up around Snyder, and he'd fought back a sob when Denton moved to stand with them. But it wasn't a sad sob -- it was a sob of validation, of relief. The big word for it he'd learned from his English TA was "catharsis."

Blink wondered if that hadn't been part of David's plan, too.

He felt as though his nerves had risen to the surface of his skin, as though any light touch might sting him, might make him lose it entirely. And yet, Race's drummer's grip and Jenny's -- sweet Jenny who he'd once snapped at, accused of taunting him -- thin flutist's fingers didn't hurt at all. Actually, they anchored him, and somehow seemed to pump in the strength he needed to do what he had to do next -- erm, do now. Right now. Jeez he was nervous. With a quick glance at Mush, he took a deep breath and focused on the words (provided by Lou and David) he'd been rehearsing for two days.

"My Lord God," Blink began the prayer, "I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end."

Across the circle, Jack picked up from there, his gaze unfocused on some middle distance and voice thick with emotions in a way Blink had never heard. "Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so."

Next to him, David continued, "But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you."

"And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire," Lou contributed.

Blink mostly kept his head bowed, but movement among the crowd outside their ring of band members and defected CCCers caught his attention. He couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw other folks from the crowd forming up at various places around the arc, bowing their heads too. The flash of pink and orange to his left he was pretty sure was Medda slipping into their ranks, taking the hands of the students she'd parted.

At Blink's side, Race rambled out, "And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road, even though I may know nothin' about it."

Steadfast, Mush delivered the final line, "Therefore I will trust you always, though I may seem to be lost. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone."*

Blink lifted his head slightly. Snyder's coloring had progressed past purple into an apoplectic asheness. His loyal crew had broken ranks and shifted away from him, leaving the pastor alone, an island of anger. All pretense of goodwill was long gone, and Snyder stood with his hands at his sides, bible in one while the other clenched in a fist, and chin lowered, chest heaving with angry breaths. He glared eerily straight ahead, fully fixated on Mush and Lou.

Like a practiced prayer leader, Lou calmly began adlibbing, using ideas they had brainstormed as a group. "You have brought these young people together, as new friends, to stand against forces that have tried to keep us apart," she paced her words carefully and kept an even, earnest tone. "We hope that you can help us all to see our way clear and continue to breed acceptance and respect and the love of our neighbors."

Pretty much everybody had their heads up by now, alert with that awareness of Something Huge happening, except Lou. And Mush looked at Blink, eyes bright and sad, so neither he nor Lou saw what Blink did as Lou rounded into the last part of her appeal.

"Above all, Lord, we ask that you forgive Pastor Snyder. We pray that you see his desire to please you, but wash away the sin of his hatred, as well as enable him to expand his narrow--"

And that's when Snyder lunged for her. "NO!" Blink shouted. Snyder clawed past his milling minions, faster than Blink might have imagined a man of his size could, and Blink dropped Jenny and Race's hands with force, shoving himself into a sprint.

A lot of things happened at once then.

The circle broke ranks, bodies set in motion everywhere. Snyder raised his bible arm above his head as he charged. At the corner of his vision, Blink saw that Oscar had seized the opportunity of chaos and headed straight for Jack, already swinging. David held Jack back firmly, his shouts lost in the rest of the sudden clamor. What Blink didn't see was Morris closing in on him, until it was too late. All Morris did was kick out a leg, tripping Blink into a freefall.

He threw himself forward into a dive, landing just in front of the already ducking Mush and catching the force of Snyder's blow on his way down. The bible hit hard against his right temple. Pain in the form of bright light exploded across his vision, but he stretched out an arm gathering Lou and Mush and shielding them from Snyder's second strike. That one landed across his shoulder blade. Blink squeezed his eyes shut and yelled.

Everyone was yelling. Everything around him was a blur. Every second might as well have been an hour. Blink didn't know how much time went by, but he heard gruffer voices and heavy boot stomps and Snyder's hits quickened then weakened then stopped.

Wincing, Blink twisted to look up and still saw Snyder's crazed face hanging above his, but his arms were pinned behind his back by one campus security guard while another pried Snyder back and away from Blink with an arm across the chest.

Blink collapsed forward into Mush, who'd been clinging to him already.

Denton entered his field of vision then. He waved off the security guards then squatted down to Blink's level. "It's okay," Denton soothed. He showed Blink his hands palms up, like you would a scared dog, then tenderly examined Blink's temple and back and arm -- the places he'd been hit. Blink closed his eyes, felt Mush's lips against his forehead. "It's all right," Denton spoke again. "You don't have anything to be scared of anymore. Not the likes of him, not anybody. And you're going to be just fine. Looks like the worst of it was that knock on your thick skull, okay?"

Blink nodded limply. Or, tried to. His head swam. Mush held him tighter, and his mouth moved from Blink's forehead closer to his ear. "Hey, Ry, you're all right. It's okay. What you did -- you were so brave. You're gonna be okay. And I love you," he whispered, body rocking gently. "Love you."

* * *

As soon as Dana and Lexie and the campus security officer yanked Oscar away from Jack and restrained him, David pounded over to where Denton crouched over Blink's crumpled form. Jack was at his heels.

"What's wrong? Is he okay?" David huffed as Jack skidded to a stop beside him, primed to ask the same questions.

Denton rose, clapped Jack on the upper arm, and addressed David. "He'll probably sit this one out, but all things considered he's in good shape."

A world of worry rolled off David. A bruise was developing on Blink's temple, but he did look okay otherwise. Better than he had from a distance.

"Now if you'll excuse me, fellas, I have to go convince the authorities to that my students did not intend to provoke an attack and do not need to be held for questioning." He quirked a smile. "At least not until after the game."

"We didn't mean--" David started, but Denton cut him off with a sympathetic look and a pat on the shoulder.

"I know, David. I know."

David looked down at Lou and Mush after Denton left. "Really, guys. I had no idea. I'm so sorry." He extended an arm to help Lou up -- she took it, dusting off the seat of her green uniform pants as she rose. "I didn't know that would happen. I really am sorry."

Lou laughed a little and swooped David into a hug.

"Nobody knew," Mush said. "How could we?"

"We knew he was dangerous," David protested, still kicking himself mentally. This had not been part of the plan. No one was supposed to get hurt. Least of all Blink, who had dealt with the brunt of all this bullshit for too long.

Lou broke off the hug and slung an arm through David's. "Not physically dangerous."

"Guess he's just even crazier than we thought," Jack said matter-of-factly.

From the concrete floor and Mush's lap, Blink snorted. "You can say that again."

Chuckles rounded the group. Jack stepped over to help Blink to his feet and Racetrack showed up just in time to steady him. Another pang of guilt hit David as he watched Blink wobble. Now it was even more important that the second part of The Plan -- the part David hadn't told these guys about, yet -- came off successfully. His eyes swept the thinning crowd for Kristy, but didn't spot her. He hope she'd ducked away to follow up some angle, and not had her tape recorder or camera confiscated.

Sarah's voiced boomed through her megaphone. "Okay, kids. We had a little commotion there, but that show's over and this one's got to start. Get your stuff and get in line." Her language was light, but her tone was all business and it put David and the others on the move immediately. Making his way back to his trumpet and helmet, David still scanned for Kristy. Instead, he found Spot.

Spot who'd been nowhere in sight through the whole thing, but gave David a look that clearly conveyed he knew exactly what had happened.

Jack bounded up behind David, evidently not noticing David's staring contest with Spot. When Jack swung an around David's shoulders for a quick congratulatory squeeze, Spot's lids lowered and his lips pursed into a smirk that was also clearly intended to nettle David. It did.

"We did good, Dave," Jack prattled, gathering his things. "It could've been better, but we beat 'em. All of us together, we beat 'em."

"Yeah, all of us together," he repeated absently, keeping up the eye contact with Spot a few beats longer before breaking it off to put on his helmet. When he looked back, Spot was gone.

*Preceding lines adapted from the Merton Prayer, from_ Thoughts in Solitude _.org/merton_.


	15. Coda

**Disclaimer**: All Newsies characters are the property of Disney; any others are of my own invention. This story contains slash. It also contains political and religious rhetoric, none of which reflects the views of Disney or FFnet or me, for that matter.

**A/N:** With much love -- and no little trepidation -- I give you the final chapter. Thank you clio21000. Thank you rustie73. Thank you readers. It's been a long and winding road; thank you for putting up with me along the way. :)

(And, you know, hooray! I'm done!)

* * *

Chapter 15 -- Coda

Jack's uniform had blood on it. David had noticed right before step-off and there wasn't time to ask if it was Jack's, if he was hurt, where he was hurt. Jack's uniform had blood on it, and Blink was seated in stands with an ice pack on his head, and Oscar had barely been allowed to pick up his instrument and rejoin the band, and Snyder was being carted off by campus security.

David's head was reeling, and he found himself extremely thankful Denton had so relentlessly drilled them on the pregame show all season because if he hadn't had the automatic pilot of muscle memory to rely on, he'd be lost by now. Adrenaline made the whole performance a blur, from troop-on to fight song and national anthem to troop-off. Only after it was over did his nerves stop jangling.

As he turned to take the stairs into the stands, David was yanked out of line and into a hug.

"Sarah --" he spluttered.

"Shut up, I'm proud of you." She squeezed him harder.

David eyes pricked. Not trusting his voice, he said nothing and let his sister hug him. By the time she did let go, he had it together. "Thanks," he said, surprised to see his sister looking stern, nearly glaring.

"Yeah, but I'm also pissed at you."

"What? You said the plan was okay! I didn't mean for anybody to get hur --"

Sarah waved her hand, dismissing his protest. "Not that, you idiot. First," she stabbed a finger into his chest, and it would've hurt if his uniform coat wasn't so thick, "I find out my little brother's gay. Then," she jabbed him again. "I find out my ex-boyfriend's gay. Then I find out they're gay together!" The third time it did hurt.

David massaged his sternum. "People aren't actually 'gay together,' Sarah."

"Shut up, you know what I mean."

Yeah, he knew. It was something he'd been avoiding thinking about, let alone talking about. He scanned the bleacher seats for Jack quickly, just checking he was still there. He was. "Okay, well we're not _together_, so lay off."

"Whatever. He kissed you."

The memory of that night -- of Jack's cola and cinnamon-gum kiss, of his hand tangled in Jack's shirt and pulling him closer before pushing him away -- swept over him. His face flushed hot. "How did you . . . ?" but then he remembered the other kiss, Jack's torturous excuse for a joke in front of the guys. "I'm going to kill Spot," David muttered, eyeing the stands for the sneaky little bastard. His quads were there but he wasn't. Figured.

He noted that Sarah didn't deny it was Spot who had told her. She just stared hard at him with pursed lips, waiting for an explanation.

"Yeah, he kissed me as some kind of 'proof' or something. I don't know, Sarah. He's . . . it's kind of a mess, okay? I don't really know what's going on." David rubbed at the back of his neck, only half meeting his sister's eye.

Her expression softened. "All right. I get it. It's weird, but I get it. Let me know if you do figure it out?" David sighed and nodded. Then Sarah's smile went a little wicked and she ribbed him with an elbow as they went up the stairs together. "At least I know your type now."

Denton's spectacular John Williams show felt oddly anticlimactic after the pre-pregame action. It amazed David that, despite the rift of hurt and confusion, the band came together as a whole to perform, near flawlessly. It was a testament to the band's affection and respect for Denton, he guessed, and he was pretty sure Medda would attribute it to the power of music itself. Whatever it was, David was thankful for it. The Harry Potter percussion feature drew cheers from the crowd of football fans. From attention position at his own mark, David saw Racetrack clap Dutchy on the back as they returned to their formation spots, in recognition of a job well done.

The football team lost the game, as per usual, but as David watched his band friends goof around and laugh as they got their uniform jackets and helmets on, readying for the march back to the band room, a sense of victory swelled in his chest.

David was fumbling with the hook-and-eye clasp on military-style collar of his uniform coat when he felt a tap at his shoulder. He turned to see Denton flanked from behind by two men with badges. "These fellas have a couple questions for you and the others, David," Denton said quietly. One of the officers was tall and thin and disheveled looking even in his police uniform. He introduced himself as Officer Sims with a vague smile on his face. The other man had a red complexion and gigantic mustache, and said only, "McSwain." Nerves knotted David's tongue and stomach, so he just nodded without saying anything. Denton cupped his shoulder in reassurance as he passed David by to fetch Mush and Blink, Lou, and Jack.

The five of them stayed behind in a little conference room beneath the stadium seating while the rest of the band marched back up to the band room. David wondered why they weren't being questioned individually, a la every cop show ever, but tried to take at it as good sign. If they wanted to fault them or catch them out on something, they would split up the group. Keeping them together might be a concession of emotional support. Or maybe they were just lazy and wanted to get this wrapped up quick.

Lou and David sat on one of the two conference tables in the room. She leaned into his shoulder, legs kicked out along the tabletop. At the other table, seated across from them, Blink fiddled with a mostly melted ice pack, Mush at his side. Jack slouched warily against the back wall, arms around his chest. With McSwain firing off gruff questions, they'd done the perfunctory stuff, gone over what happened, recounting events as precisely as they could. Blink's statement counted most on that part, and David winced as he'd listened, unable to shut off his guilt.

"You want to press assault charges?" was McSwain's final question.

Blink obviously wrestled with that one. He and Mush whispered with their heads together, and he even looked to David, but David could only offer sympathy. Ultimately, Blink asked, "Can I, um, get back to you on that?"

"Yeah, okay," McSwain flipped his notebook shut and looked ready to leave.

Sims didn't move, though, except to nod like he understood Blink's dilemma. "Just so we're clear, son, right now we've got this Snyder guy in our lock up. And if you're not going to press charges, we are not required to keep him. In fact, we can't. We'll probably keep him until he cools off and let him go because this is his first offense."

David felt Lou's sigh and saw his friends deflate. He wasn't sure now how they'd really expected this would end, but that was not exactly a triumphant conclusion. "What? What about harassment? What about libel?" he asked angrily.

McSwain nearly rolled his eyes, and David's temper flared as he was hit with a realization. "You're not asking us why," he accused. "You haven't asked us why he attacked us, or why we staged the prayer circle at all. Don't you want to know?"

Jack lifted his head, catching David's line of thinking. "Maybe they already know."

David tapped Lou to let him up and hopped to the floor. "Maybe they do. Maybe they already know Snyder blackmailed a student from a campus organization that he practically runs into printing an inflammatory article in the school newspaper. Maybe they already know he encourages his followers to harass people who don't agree with him, 'in the name of the Lord.'" He moved to stand by Jack, facing the cops squarely. "Or maybe they just don't care."

"Now hang on here, kid," Sims looked confused, but concerned. "You're saying you think Snyder was involved in that skirmish about the school paper?"

"I know he was." David's throat tightened, anger swelling inside him again. "He's practically admitted it three times! Go ask him about it right now. I bet he's still pissed off enough to end up incriminating himself."

McSwain growled something under his breath and Sims signaled for both him and David to settle. "All right, all right, but back up a second. Why do you think Snyder's involved in the paper business? And what's this about harassment?"

"It's baloney," McSwain rumbled. His face reddened further and he shifted uncomfortably. "We got enough, let's go."

Sims looked at his partner like he'd been body snatched and Jack tapped David with his elbow. McSwain stood at the door, and jerked his head for Sims to follow. "I said _let's go_."

The two officers locked in a battle-of-wills staring contest. David bit his lip.

With a glower and huff, McSwain exited the room. Sims sighed and turned wide-eyed back to David. "I apologize for that. I honestly don't know what that was about," he said, taking a seat.

Blink scoffed, "Bet I do."

"Oh?"

"Snyder's probably got him in is pocket," Jack clarified.

"Or his congregation," Mush added quietly.

Lou shrugged. "Same thing."

Sims wagged his head. "What is going on here, guys? What did he do?" Five pairs of eyes went to David, who stood a little straighter with surprise and accidentally met Sims's gaze. The officer gestured to a chair across from him. "Will you tell me about it?"

David looked around for confirmation, and got it. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, okay."

* * *

Band members, though not always geeks, are totally creatures of habit. It was the first Thursday without band practice and instead of being out partying it up, Blink, Mush, and Race had congregated in the only place they regularly hung out other than the Fine Arts building: David's room.

David seemed okay with it, whenever he looked away from his laptop to notice they were there. He'd been twitchy and tense all week, for no reason Blink or Mush could identify. Actually, they'd barely seen him outside of band practice. Maybe it was the coming of finals, but that seemed extreme even for Dave.

Mush was sprawled on the extra bed with his head in Blink's lap. He claimed he was exhausted, having not gotten much sleep the night before -- for reasons he was choosing not to discuss in polite company, and probably that was a good thing. Blink understood not everyone needed to know the details of his super hot sex life with his super hot boyfriend, but sometimes he did want to shout about it from the roof of the dorm. Or, you know, just brag about it a little, like Race and Jack (well, like Jack used to). Blink was appreciating Mush's cuddliness and idly tossing a Nerf football back and forth with Race, who was, of course, talking about a girl.

"She's been my cymbal for, like, half the season, you know? I mean all along she was right there literally in front of me."

"Well, Anna is pretty short," Mush offered, drowsily fingering the seam of Blink's jeans at his knee.

"Shorter than you, even." Blink agreed with a grin. Race pelted him in the chest with the foam ball.

"See, you were just 'overlooking' her," Mush chuckled and Blink felt it against his thigh.

David jumped to his feet, mumbling to himself. But he only shuffled around in his backpack until he found a notebook and then reattached himself to his computer.

Race eyed him with a cross between confusion and annoyance. "Anyway, she was all about that set up on Saturday. All 'it was so cool you're helping your friends' and everything." Blink nodded. He had a vague memory of Race flirting with Anna on Saturday, before everything went down. "And this week at practice she's not my cymbal anymore, right? -- because we've switched to concert set up. But she was still hanging around me, all three days this week."

After the final game every season, the marching band converted itself back into a concert band and began practicing music to play at the university's December graduation ceremony. Blink was always sad to hang up his uniform for the season, but really by this time of year it was too cold, and usually too snowy, to want any more outdoor rehearsals.

"Dude, you play snare for, like, everything. And she's on bass drum, or something? Of _course_ she's by you. You stand right next to each other for like half the songs."

"And don't you assign the parts, as section leader?" David asked, out of nowhere. Blink snickered.

Race scowled at David and readjusted his cap. "Whatever. She wants me. I can tell." He threw the ball to Blink.

Blink caught it and shook his head, "If you say so."

"I do. Here's the thing, though. I asked her to band banquet."

"Seriously?" Band banquet was the big year-end party paid for by the music department. No hikes or alcohol or freshmen pledges this time. More like dress shoes and ties at some fancy-schmancy restaurant. This was the first year Blink was bringing a date. He'd officially asked Mush just last night and he had said yes -- an enthusiastic yes that had kept them up pretty late. But Blink had to not think about that right now before he started poking Mush in the back of the head. He smiled down at his boyfriend, and gently twirled a finger in his tight curls.

"Yeah, and she said _no_."

David snorted. "Yup, she totally wants you."

Blink laughed and tossed the ball back to Race. "Why'd she turn your ass down?"

"She said someone else asked her first, that she already has a date. Didn't say who, though."

"Must be somebody hot, if she turned you down for him."

Race stuck out his hands, "Exactly. But who's hotter'n me?"

Mush made a hungry little purring noise like he'd thought of an answer, and Blink sincerely hoped no one else heard it. He willed himself not to blush.

David was pecking at his laptop again at a near-frantic pace with his eyebrows all squished together. He'd missed Race's punch line. Blink and Race shared a look, and Race just rolled his eyes. "Hey, brainiac! What's got you in such a bad mood?" he asked, scoring a hit on David's head with the Nerf ball.

David glowered deeper. "Nothing. I'm just making sure . . . It's stuff for the paper . . ." He trailed off with a wince like he'd revealed more than he'd meant to.

"Paper?" Mush asked, rolling his head David's direction. Blink ignored the pleasant friction that created -- mostly. "I thought _Cougar News_ was still 'on hiatus' or whatever?"

"Uh, well, actually," David hesitated for a second, but then busted into a grin. "Actually, we kind of got started printing again."

Blink scratched at his eye beneath his patch. "But, that's impossible. I mean, you said they shut you guys down until they figured out who planted the story."

"And I thought you said there's no, whatchamacallit. Chief editor," Race added.

David blushed. "Yeah, about that, see they --"

"Hey, hey, hey!" Jack's voice boomed from the entryway, echoing off all the cinder block. He came into the room with his arms stretched above his head, crisp newspaper in his hands. "Look what I found." He smacked the newspaper on the bed next to Blink and Mush.

"Where did you--?" David jolted to his feet even before Blink got a chance to read the headline, and Jack shot him a smile and answer.

"Ran into a kid distributing those around campus. Some big surprise you whipped up, Dave."

The front page headline above the fold read "Campus pastor arrested for harassment, assault," accompanied by split-frame photos of Snyder -- one of him from Saturday with his bible raised as he launched toward Blink (although Blink was edited out of the shot), the other of him being escorted out of the rectory in handcuffs. Byline, Kristy Eliot.

Blink's mouth fell open. He looked up at David, eyes wide. "For real?"

David nodded, finally looking relaxed and relieved. "For real. Read all about it."

Mush extricated himself from Blink's lap. "What's it say? Oh, whoa."

Blink scanned the article hungrily, catching the words "police custody," "marching band," "intimidation."

"Hey, read it already," Race demanded.

"Okay, okay." He wet his lips, giving himself a second to beat back the butterflies fluttering up his throat, then began. "Wednesday afternoon Christian Community Club pastor James Snyder was taken into police custody on charges of libel, blackmail, harassment, and assault. Snyder is being held in connection to the false article planted in this paper during the week of November 10, as well as events surrounding the public assault of a student before last Saturday's football game." Relief spread through his chest as he realized his name would not be appearing in this article.

Kristy's exposé went on to detail that Snyder wrote the libelous article but coerced a student to plant it by threatening to take away his church-sponsored scholarship. The unnamed student would not be prosecuted. She gave an overview of the violence and harassment within the marching band, noting that it was exacerbated by anti-gay rhetoric found in Snyder's speeches within the campus organization, and reported there are unconfirmed accounts that Snyder had previously given personal direction to particular students to carry out more direct methods of intimidation.

At that point, Blink's voice and vision started to waver. Mush, who had been following along over his shoulder, rubbed circles on his back and took the paper from him. He took over the reading.

Continued on page 2, Kristy's article then described Saturday's prayer circle, the climax of events and the students' attempt at a nonviolent response to Snyder's persecution, conceived by David Jacobs, who was quoted as saying, "I figured the best way to fight fire and brimstone was with fire and brimstone. But the words had to come from the people who meant them, and were familiar with the pattern of extemporaneous prayer. I was shocked, but really heartened, by the number of CCC and band members who participated." Some of Snyder's angry comments were quoted, as well as bits of Lou's prayer. Band director Bryan Denton equated David with the hero who brought down Goliath, and praised all his students for their dedication to the band and each other, despite outside adversity.

The article ended with fair treatment of Snyder's congregation's outrage over his arrest, which was made by the city police after a thorough report from school officials and a preliminary investigation. Quotes from concerned students were given ample space, most of which attempted to counter the charges against Snyder with positive character testimony, and stated that they hoped to raise enough money to release him on bail. Snyder would, however, be required to stand trial and the university had banned him from campus and participation in student-run organizations.

Blink looked up at David. He wanted to ask how David knew this is what he needed, how David had made it happen. He wanted to say thank you. But he couldn't say any of it around the lump in his throat.

"There's more," Jack reported, voice somber but face plastered with smirk. "Check out Dave's column. Page four."

"Column?" Blink and Mush asked in tandem.

David's cheeks turned pink and he cleared his throat. "Yeah, see, Kristy offered it to me and at first I thought it was a set up, kind of, but then I realized I could use it to help. I didn't have the guts to really say everything I meant, before." He fidgeted a little and flicked a glance at Jack. "But I do now."

Blink smiled and poked Mush to flip to the Opinion page. Sure enough, there was a mug shot of David.

Mush giggled. "Heh, Dave you look like a gentleman or something."

Blink saw Jack josh David with poke to the ribs before he looked back to the paper. David had dubbed his column "Improving the Truth." This week's title was "Straight Talk" -- only Dave could get away with a pun like that. He only scanned the column, but got the gist that it was frankly discussing homosexuality and the kinds of damaging stuff people -- mainly people who don't understand, or don't want to -- say about it and the effects that kind of talk has. Something about the byline caught Blink's attention and he grabbed Mush's hand and shoved his face closer to the small print. "They made you editor in chief!"

Surprise and excitement and congratulations rounded the room and David accepted with sheepish thanks. Race shook David's hand and Blink watched David blush again as Jack ruffled his hair.

"I think it was Dean Seitz's decision to make me EIC, and I think he did it mostly out of spite for Snyder because of all the administrative hassle he's caused. I don't know. I really don't deserve it, but the rest of the staff agreed to it." David shrugged self-consciously.

"Knock, knock," a female voice from the entryway called. Blink turned to consult Mush but Mush just shook his head; he didn't recognize it either.

David's smile was immediate and he waved whoever it was in. "Hey, come in! What are you doing here?"

A girl with a long ponytail of dishwater blond hair strode into view, carrying a short stack of _Cougar News_ copies. "Extry, extry. Special delivery. I thought you might like to see this for yourself." She wagged the papers with a smile, stopping short when she caught sight of Blink and Mush on the bed with their issue open in hand. "But I see you already found one. Well, here's more to send home to Mom." She flopped them onto the spare desk. "You having a party and didn't invite me, Jacobs?"

Somewhat to Blink's surprise, David didn't miss a beat. "The party never starts until you show up. I'm glad you came -- I'd like you to meet these guys, actually." He introduced Kristy Eliot to Jack and Race (Race actually kissed her hand, the showoff) then gestured to the bed where Blink and Mush sat in a tangle. Blink unwound himself from Mush and scooted to the edge of the bed, not managing to stand before Kristy was before him, hand held out. "You must be Ryan. And Michael. I've heard a lot of great things about you both. I'm very sorry about what happened at the paper."

Her smile was as firm as her handshake, but Blink saw some hurt in her green eyes. She knew just about everything he'd been through. She'd talked to David, done the interviews. Hell, she'd been there on Saturday, and he hadn't even known it. It felt weird to have someone outside their little circle know so much about him, but Kristy was all sincere confidence.

"Thanks for writing that story. I mean, for telling people what really happened. And for not using my name. It was bad enough I got my ass kicked by a preacher in public. Would've sucked more to be labeled a loser victim in the paper, too."

Kristy's smile sparked. "Company policy. It was an important story, and I owed you," she turned to catch Jack and David in her scope, "All of you. After what happened on my watch, I had to make it right. I gave the cops everything I had on Snyder and got Calvin to talk to them, too. It's his family and the school who are pressing charges, so far." She spun back to Blink. "And Snyder's the loser. Not you. You survived his bullshit. You win."

I win, Blink repeated to himself, trying the fit. He studied the newsprint pages beside him, letting the ink facts printed there sink in. It was over. Mush slipped a hand into Blink's and squeezed. As Blink looked back at his boyfriend, a grin broke onto his face. "Yeah, that's true. I win."

* * *

David arrived at the restaurant for band banquet awkwardly early. He didn't have much of a choice, since he'd caught a ride with Lou and she was on the organizing committee. But it meant a lot of standing around and trying not to drink all the punch while watching happy couples and groups of bandmates arrive. He wasn't Lou's official date -- that wouldn't fool anybody at this point -- but he'd purposefully made plans with her to avoid having to deal with figuring out what it would mean if he came with Jack, even as part of a group. He knew they'd have to talk about . . . stuff . . . eventually, but other than the buzz around campus his column had generated, David was hoping to significantly cut back on the gay drama.

Jack, Racetrack, and Spot arrived together. The three of them breezed into the dining room like some modern-day Rat Pack -- Racetrack sported a sleek black cap; Spot wore an actual, Tom Ford-style fitted grey suit; and Jack in a sports coat and red tie. David suddenly felt self-conscious and underdressed. He didn't own a jacket, so had settled for his best blue Oxford, dark brown chinos, and a tie. Jack spotted David first and trotted over.

"Hey," he greeted.

"Hey," David returned.

Silence followed.

David fidgeted with his empty plastic punch cup. Up close, Jack looked like some rakish English school boy. David took an interest in the carpet out of self-preservation.

"You look real nice, Dave," Jack said, startling David into staring at him.

He opened his mouth to deflect the compliment then closed it and started over. "Thanks. You do, too." It required conscious effort not to swoon when Jack smiled. David had forgotten, somehow, in the midst of all the drama, how likeable Jack was in a general sense and how much David liked him in a very particular sense. Because he did.

Now he just had to find a way to fess up about it.

Blink and Mush came in looking disheveled. Like they got dressed in a rush. Or, more likely, they got dressed, undressed, then redressed in a rush. Jack and David shared a look and a quiet laugh, both hitting on that same thought.

People started to choose tables, out of habit sorting by section, mixing in dates where necessary. Mush and Blink sat with Lou and other clarinets. Other trumpet players were congregating around the table Jack and David were nearest, so they sat. David plunked himself into a chair quickly before Jack could do anything gentlemanly and stupid like pull it out for him. He cringed for a split second when he realized that, in his haste, he'd seated himself directly next to Lexie. But, well, bygones.

Last Saturday's events had easily overwritten the memory of the photo incident, so Racetrack was done with keeping a restraining-order distance from Spot. In fact, their friendship appeared to have fully repaired itself. That was lucky because it meant Spot was on hand to keep Racetrack from causing a scene when Anna appeared -- a blond pixie in a snow-white strapless dress -- on Dutchy's arm. Racetrack's jaw dropped. Spot reached over and pushed it closed, and Racetrack batted his hand away in annoyance. David chuckled.

"She's with that bum?" Racetrack exclaimed. "That clumsy, lazy, scatterbrained . . ." He growled out a semester's worth of frustration with Dutchy in a string of unflattering adjectives. "And he is not hotter than I am," he finished firmly.

Spot flashed Racetrack look that clearly broadcast he thought Race was an idiot. "So she showed up to some lame-ass band function with him. It doesn't mean they're fucking." It was a good point, and David felt kind of embarrassed he'd fallen victim to similar logic about Jack.

Race nodded, taking this under serious advisement. "Right. You're right. Odds are good on that one. I'm going over there." He straightened his cap and crisped his collar. "Later, fellas," he said as he strode over to claim a seat by Anna at what was shaping up to be a percussion table.

Spot rolled his eyes and followed.

When Sarah strode through the door hand-in-hand with Skittery minutes later, David was just as shocked as everyone else. With the dinner buffet set, only a few people were still standing to mingle, and the dining room got decidedly quieter -- but not silent, all abuzz with interest. As Sarah paused to allow Skittery to take her coat, David realized that was his sister's exact intent. Show up fashionably late, make a splash, and avoid having to answer any of those whispered questions. He grudgingly admired her guts.

Jack leaned forward, forearms on the table, to watch Sarah and Skittery proceed to the table where Denton, Medda, and Weasel were already seated. "Well, that's interesting," he half-whispered to David.

On David's other side Lexie made a scoffing noise. "I can't believe he's got every girl in the band after his ass and he chose _her_." Half the trumpet section was seated around the table, and all of them stared at her in stunned silence. Lexie caught the disapproval drift, but wasn't too concerned by it. "What? Everyone's thinking it, I'm just saying it."

Baffled, David shifted against the back of his chair to better address her directly. "Lexie, Sarah's my sister," he reminded her, pointedly.

Lexie winced a little and patted his knee. "I know. But think of it this way, maybe you'll be getting a really hot brother-in-law," she leaned closer to him, adding in a conspiratorial tone, "and if she breaks up with him, maybe you can pick up her seconds, again." She smiled with mock sweetness and patted his knee again.

David was dumbfounded with instant anger. He turned to Jack. "I might kill her," he said seriously, eyes still wide. "I really might."

Jack laughed at him. "Welcome to Race's world."

There wasn't a lot of ceremony involved in the dinner. Denton got up to repeat his thanks and express his delight with their talent, adding a vague comment about their resilience as a group, before dinner got under way. Toward the end of the main meal, there was a presentation of award certificates Denton had mocked up on his computer and printed off. Some of them were serious honors (outstanding section went to percussion, most dedicated player to Blink), others were jokey (most promising freshman to David, "least maintenance" section to the clarinets), but everybody received one. After that there was dancing. David shouldn't have been surprised by that, but he was. He wasn't much of a dancer.

There was no live band, but the DJ wasn't horrible. He at least played things David recognized, and a lot of people did get up to dance, including Denton and Medda. In fact, they danced together, and not just to the first slow song. They stayed out there for a pop hit or two, mixing it up with the students -- Medda's oversized red curls bouncing and pink dress swishing while Denton was all elbows and knees. Blink and Mush were out there, too, with barely a sneer from either Delancey brother.

When Jack flicked a glance at David around about the second slow song, though, David stammered something about the men's room and too much punch and slid out of his chair -- and the dining room altogether.

Dinner had been good, great even. He and Jack had slipped into their friendly routine from the early months of the semester -- David supplying the words Jack was searching for, sometimes augmenting each other's jokes and cracking up the other members of their section. It was easy. And fun. And felt really good. Great, even. But now that David was sure that Jack liked him -- really liked him, liked-him-enough-to-kiss-him liked him -- David was starting to panic, just a little. What if he'd just been putting Jack on some pedestal? What if Jack had been doing the same to David? What did he really know about Jack, anyway? Easy and fun as it was to hang out together, they had a lot of serious ground to regain, not to mention trust.

He was outside and around the corner of the building before he noticed his breath appearing as puffs of white in the cold and the smell of cigarette smoke.

"Spot," David said, not so much in greeting as in surprise.

"Jacobs," Spot returned. His shoulders were hunched against the cold, one hand in his pants pocket, the other dangling his cigarette.

David was at a loss after that. It took a minute for his brain to switch gears and catch up to present. "Having fun?" he asked lamely.

"A ball," Spot said without inflection.

An idea clicked for David. "Seems kind of dull, if you ask me," he pattered. "Band meetings are usually so action packed and drama charged -- you know, like last Saturday." Spot's face remained blank, but his eyes sharpened. "Oh! That's right, I forgot. You weren't there, were you? Well, you were. I mean, you were at the game, I guess, but you missed all the good stuff. Like  
that part where we all stood up for our friends and triumphed over evil. I guess that's not your thing." David shrugged with a casual glance down the alley.

Spot shook his head, mildly amused. "Your mouth might be smarter than you are, kid." He took a drag on his cigarette. "I didn't need to be part of your big gay pride parade. So shoot me."

"You could've been there just to support your friends. Nobody would've suspected anything if you had been, you know."

"Suspected what?"

David rolled his eyes and planted his hand on his hips. "Please."

One corner of Spot's mouth twisted up. "I don't do dark alleys."

David flushed when Spot's meaning hit him. He crossed his arms defensively. "You know exactly what I'm talking about it. Someday it's gonna bite you on the ass."

"You got a real kinky side, Dave. You talk this way to Jacky-boy?" Spot mocked. "Bet he loves it."

This time David let it roll off him. So Spot was determined to remain completely in the closet. Not his problem. He took the hint and changed focus. "All right, fine. Just answer me this -- how did you know about Jack?"

Spot blew out a lungful of smoke. "You being purposefully vague there?"

"You told me he was chickenshit. That means you knew something about what he was going through. Did he tell you he was gay?"

Spot pursed his lips and gave David a look like he was sizing up the situation, deciding whether he was going to bother with the truth. "Well, for what it's worth, I don't think Jack's straight up queer, if you'll excuse the pun. And, no, he never told me anything. Call it an educated  
guess after weeks of watching him moon over you. He wouldn't shut his trap about you."

That surprised David, and he couldn't hide it. The warmth of certainty seeped into him in spite of the cold -- Spot's story matched Jack's. That one point of corroboration did a lot to solidify his faith in Jack.

Unfortunately, Spot picked up on his excitement. A mischievous, mean smile spread onto his face.

"It's a bitch you're Sarah's little brother, though. That's fuckin' weird, hey?" He tossed down his cigarette and stomped it out.

"I try not to think about it," David said honestly. "Oh, and thanks for telling her about Jack kissing me, though. I appreciate that, really." He started to move back inside.

Spot grinned. "He screwed her, you know. A lot."

"Spot. Seriously."

"And I hear she liked it. A lot."

"SPOT." David pushed the heels of his hands to his forehead, trying to rid himself of that mental image.

Spot held open the restaurant door, as gleeful as David had ever seen him.

"I'm just saying. Guy's obviously got talent. Good news for you, right?"

David wagged his head as he walked into the dining room, but couldn't help laughing. "I'm walking away now, Spot," he called over his shoulder.

He scanned the room for Jack and caught sight of him at an empty corner of the dance floor, talking to Sarah, of all people. David picked his way through the scattered tables and chairs and conversations. Just before he reached them, Sarah clamped Jack in a hug that Jack returned loosely, looking like he wasn't quite sure what to do with his hands.

"Sooo, what's up, guys?" David broke in.

Sarah half let go of Jack and swung her arm over David's shoulders, drawing the three of them together. "No worries, little bro. Just making sure Jack's intentions toward you are more honorable than they were toward me."

David's stomach dropped and his eyes widened. Sarah laughed and gave his cheek a cartoonish kiss as Skittery came to take her hand and lead her back onto the dance floor.

Stricken, David turned to Jack. "Tell me she wasn't serious."

Jack smiled and shrugged. "Think she mighta been. She threatened to cut off my balls if I ever hurt you. I'd say that's the equivalent of a blessing from her, considering . . ."

David was okay with Jack not finishing that sentence.

He shook it off. "Right, well, whatever. But I'm sorry. Just know that it wasn't me who told her."

Jack's smile got bigger and he cocked his head with a knowing curiosity. "Tell her what?"

And this was it. Right now, David could say it. Really say it, like he meant it. Say it the way he had been too angry to say it the night Jack finally had told him the truth. Planting his shoulders against the wall for support, he tried it out. "That -- that I -- I mean that you, you know . . . like  
me." David gave himself a mental kick to ass.

"Yes," Jack affirmed, and even though his smile stiffened slightly with disappointment he moved closer, turning toward David and leaning against the wall with one shoulder, invading his personal space just a smidge. "I do like you, Dave."

Just for a second David closed his eyes and soaked up Jack's nearness, hoping it would magically give him courage. Then he looked out at the sea of band kids laughing and dancing to the music David could feel thudding in his chest, out of synch with his heart, but he could feel the whole of Jack's attention focused only on him. Jack -- who should be out there in the middle of the action, surrounded by pretty girls, and dancing until he dropped -- was instead playing wallflower with David. Like so much else about Jack, it mystified him.

"There's a lot I don't know about you," David said, apropos of nothing obvious and only then realizing he'd been scowling in thought.

Jack laughed brightly. "Yeah?" He tried to play it off, but David turned his scowl on him and Jack quickly capitulated. "Yeah, okay. That's true. So, ask me anything. What do you wanna know?"

There were three hundred things David had at some point thought to ask, but he couldn't remember any of them now. "Well, just, basic stuff. Like -- I don't know. Like, why'd you come here anyway? To this school?"

"Same reason as you, probably," Jack shrugged.

David snorted. "You mean your first boyfriend broke your heart by dumping you in front of the entire newspaper staff and you were too embarrassed to go back?"

"Well, I was gonna say cheap out-of-state tuition," Jack deadpanned and David expelled the breath he'd been holding in a sharp laugh. Jack smiled for a second before his expression eased into concern and he spoke lower. "You serious? That happened?"

David nodded. It was the first time he'd told anyone the truth about that -- and the irony of his carrying around that lie of omission while demanding honesty from everyone else was not lost on him. He bit his lip and studied the floor. Some shining example of humanity he was. Where did he get off telling people how to live their lives and incriminating public figures?

"You don't got anything to be embarrassed about here, Dave. You . . . you're good. You did everybody a lot of good." He toed the side of David's shoe with his own. "I'm sorry that happened, but I'm glad you came here."

David lifted his head. Jack's gaze was sincere and hopeful and warm enough to melt. David let that warmth settle and spread through him, relaxing his shoulders and chest and gut. He let his head loll back against the wall and small smile crept onto his face.

"We're not automatically dating, you know," he said, an edge of mock grudge in his voice.

It was a victory and Jack knew it. Grinning, he shifted his arm up the wall, leaning over David like some jock against a cheerleader's locker. "I know."

"It doesn't work that way," David stayed firm, but he was grinning now, too.

"I think it did for them," Jack pointed out, flicking a nod toward the dance floor where Blink and Mush were dancing, lost in each other's eyes and limbs.

David rolled his eyes. "Okay, it doesn't work that way for normal people." He crossed his arms and did his best to play hard-to-get. "And anyway, I may not even like you," he sniffed.

Jack's eyes narrowed and his smirk was as sexy as his voice when he said, "Oh, you like me, Dave."

"I do?" David teased.

Jack leaned in closer, one hand moving to David's hip while his mouth hovered above David's -- not touching, just taunting. David gasped. Left breathless, his lips parted in anticipation. Jack's chest expanded with a breath, and David's eyes slipped closed as he felt Jack ease incrementally closer just before he redirected this mouth to David's ear and whispered, "Yeah, you do."

David's eyes flew open. Jack stepped back, grinning and cocky as hell.

Angry and embarrassed, David shot him with a death glare. But when Jack just chuckled, David found himself laughing, too. After all, it was true.

He shook his head and sighed. "Yeah," he said, meeting Jack's eyes and kicking away from the wall to reach out for his hand. "Yeah, I do."

-end-


End file.
